


Red In Tooth And Claw

by SecretAgentCodenameBob



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Blood and Gore, Death, Depression, Ed is a werewolf, M/M, Not as campy as it sounds, Oswald is a vampire, POV Alternating, Pining, Power Play, Sexual Tension, Sickfic Elements, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Vampire/Werewolf AU, mild hypnotism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2017-09-07
Packaged: 2018-08-07 16:40:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 73,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7722100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecretAgentCodenameBob/pseuds/SecretAgentCodenameBob
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Vampire/Werewolf AU] Oswald Cobblepot has been dead for over a year, Gotham River not content to let him sleep. Edward Nygma has been fighting another self all his life; a beast trapped, waiting and finally freed. Both are outsiders, both monsters and both achingly alone. It was only a matter of time before they met.</p><p>“And we all know love is a glass which makes even a monster appear fascinating.” - Alberto Moravia</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. just a king and a rusty throne

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Red In Tooth And Claw](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9588284) by [Red_evil_twist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red_evil_twist/pseuds/Red_evil_twist)
  * Translation into 中文 available: [猩红的尖牙与利爪](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10349076) by [Dr_Henriette_Nygmobblepot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dr_Henriette_Nygmobblepot/pseuds/Dr_Henriette_Nygmobblepot)



> Just a note at the beginning, this fic will be pretty dark in places (not all the way through but these two are literal monsters and they're bloody enough on the show as humans). There's a reason this fic is called 'Red in Tooth and Claw'. Also both main characters deal with a combination of self-loathing, depression and suicidal thoughts, particularly at the beginning. If that is a possible trigger then maybe this isn't the best story for you.
> 
> So, if that hasn't put you off, I really do hope you enjoy it. While a Vampire/Werewolf AU the premise and setting of the show has not changed and the characters themselves are still, at their roots, the same broken, twisted people who are far more alike than they realise. Ed and Oswald fall in love no matter what universe they find each other in.
> 
> To quote Alberto Moravia: "We all know love is a glass which makes even a monster appear fascinating."

_I'm a fly that's trapped_  
_In a web_  
_But I'm thinking that_  
_My spider's dead_  
_Lonely, lonely little life_  
_I could kid myself_  
_In thinking that I'm fine_  
**Always - Panic! At the Disco**

 

When Jim Gordon tells Oswald Cobblepot to never come back to Gotham he thinks he is being merciful. He thinks he is sparing his own conscience. He thinks he is saving Oswald’s life.

Well, for all of Jim's good intentions, Oswald dies anyway. As it turns out, trying to swim in a freezing river with a recently crippled right leg does not come with a 100% guaranteed chance of survival.

Oswald feels what should have been an inhale of crisp air pour into his lungs; instead black, murky water claws down his throat, frozen nails scraping his windpipe. He chokes on his last polluted breath, tries to raise his head above the waves but icy tendrils wrap around his ankles and drag him down and down and _down_.

The world is swallowed up in darkness. Ice fills his veins, asphyxiation of the coldest kind suffocating everything warm in his body. 

Gotham City swallows Oswald whole. 

Then it spits him back out.

The world is numb and sharp and far, far too bright. Oswald can barely see for the white pulsating at the back of his eyes. Everything is cold and it _hurts_. The pain is intense; pure and paralysing. He doesn't know how he manages to breach the surface of the water, doesn't know how he makes it to shore but, somehow, he does.

When he sees the man, fishing a short way from him, the rational part of his mind, the human part, registers him as a threat. A possible witness to his escape. A risk.

Yet, as Oswald shuffles closer all those thoughts melt away like snow and all that is left is this deep hunger, gnawing at his insides. The ice in his veins is jagged and sharp and every move hurts but he has to go closer, he is so _thirsty_.

He forgets to grab the knife. Instead, he tears out the man’s throat with his teeth. Jugular sheared open by serrated points and its warm, a sticky spray spatters across his face - the blood is hot, scorching his throat with each greedy swallow but Oswald doesn't care. He drops to his knees as he gulps it down, his frozen veins slowly filling with the facsimile of life.

He drinks until something instinctual tells him to stop, that his prey is drained dry. Oswald's mouth unfastens from the ruined skin with a wet pop. He isn’t shaking anymore.

 _Never come back to Gotham_.

The words ring in his ears, a command which demands obedience. He has to leave. Escape. Deal with this...problem somewhere safe. Right now his mind cannot process reality, cannot even discern what reality is. In the midst of the panic which is building beneath his chest, whining behind his eardrums, his thoughts fall back on the world he used to live in.

Fish Mooney still wants his hide, discovery is too dangerous. He cannot risk it, not after what Jim has done for him.

So, Oswald flees.

The man on the riverfront is found three hours later. It takes the police a further four days to decide on a verdict: it was not murder, but an unfortunate mauling by feral dogs. Three people attend his funeral.

Something strange happens while Oswald runs away. Every step he takes away from Gotham is that little bit heavier, the muscles in his leg seizing up inch by inch. The constant ache in his bones makes it so much easier to lash out, to bite and kill those arrogant men-no, _boys_ in the car who dare to mock him. Oswald’s teeth are sharper than any knife he's ever wielded. Not a drop of their blood goes to waste.

He tries to sleep but finds he cannot. In the hours of night when unconsciousness should overcome him, Oswald’s mind is full of music. Gotham sings to him, a discordant, haunting, ever-present siren call which caresses his mind, clasps his neck and _pulls_. Each second he spends running away only causes the city’s call to grow louder; crescendoing, demanding, insistent. _Come back. Do not forsake me_.

It gets harder and harder to resist, impossible to ignore and, finally, Oswald gives in. Whatever he has become, Gotham City is a part of him; an inseparable part, it would seem. It is Gotham's air which preserves the walking corpse that used to call himself Oswald Cobblepot, Gotham’s lifeblood which pumps through his veins, which sustains him. To try to flee his saviour would be a death sentence.

So, bent but not broken, Oswald comes home.

The rest follows naturally, he supposes just as it would have done if he hadn't...changed. No one can really tell the difference, no one ever guesses. Oswald ingratiates himself with Don Maroni, secretly spies for Falcone and all the while tries to win Jim Gordon’s approval. 

Everything is normal. Except it isn't.

 _Never come back to Gotham_.

Jim’s voice is the last thing he can remember before the roaring in his eardrums, a bullet shattering the air around him, the rest of the world drowned out in a screeching whine. It is Jim’s voice which Oswald clings to as the rest of his humanity slips away, like fog on the sea at sunrise. 

Jim Gordon grounds him, gives him hope and so, when he calls Jim ‘friend’, Oswald means it. 

He yearns for the day Jim will echo it back to him and mean it too.

Until that day Oswald resigns himself to exploring quite what he has become. Whatever Gotham River filled him with has changed him, rearranged his DNA so now he only masquerades as a man. Sleep is a fruitless endeavour; no matter how heavy his eyelids grow there is no escape into the oblivion of unconsciousness. Every second is one of hypersensory existence - he hears everything, sees everything, smells _everything_. All the sounds and sights and scents of the city which before didn't even register, muddle together in a dizzying assault on his senses. The city is opened up to him and it stinks, putrid and festering.

Food and drink taste like dust in his mouth and he spits them back out, blood seemingly all his new physiology can stomach.

Gotham runs in his veins, cold and unrelenting and always, always hungry. 

Oswald only ever hunts at night and he is always prudent to plot where (no longer sleeping at least affords him ample time for careful preparation). There are plenty of homeless and forgettables in Gotham, the street rats and sewer scum its benevolent citizens have forsaken, so he never runs out of prey.

The act of hunting is unlike anything else he has ever experienced. It is as if the human side of his mind clocks out for an hour, senses focusing, sharpening to a painful precision with a sole intention. It is like stepping into a different skin; the world falls away and Oswald Cobblepot ceases to exist as the thirst takes over.

It is never quenched. Oswald blinks back to himself, suit coated in blood and mouth thick with the sharp tang of iron - unsated. Unsatisfied. Still, it allows him to live on, if this can be called living.

Apart from the more ‘practical’ explorations much of Oswald’s discovery about himself comes from others’ reactions to him. On the surface he appears unchanged but every person seems to sense something beneath his skin, something they cannot quite put their finger on, which creates a battle of instinct in them. There is an instinctual revulsion, borne out of a primal sense of self-preservation and then also an equal opposite force of curiosity, attraction.

Oswald finds his words can spin webs around people and he watches, awed, as he mesmerises men from the common thug to Sal Maroni himself. He has always had a talent for endearing himself to people, playing upon their fears and desires yet this is different. Each time it feels as though the very air around him shifts to his purpose. Hypnotic is not quite the right word yet...it is similar. Light suggestion perhaps. Influence. It proves a useful tool.

Of course, as he learns more and more, it dawns just what these abilities brand him as.

Vampire.

He balks the first time he thinks it. Impossible. Ridiculous. And yet...as the days pass and discovery after discovery is made, the certainty of it settles as a cold, dead weight in Oswald’s chest.

Vampire. Night walker. Lich. Ghoul. Incubus. Revenant. Rakshasa. The world apparently has ample names for whatever he is but none of them sound right, all taste like poison on his lips. His mother has another name for them - _pijavica_. Monsters of the night. Souls cursed to eternal damnation. Evil spirits who live with the sole purpose: to turn this earth into a living hell.

“Can people love monsters?”

Gertrud stops her sewing and looks up at Oswald with those intense eyes, the exact same shade of her son’s. “Oh my little Oswald,” she coos, accent slurring her speech, “a monster can only stop being a monster when they are loved.”

Oswald’s smile is too tight; he doesn't show his teeth. Whenever someone sees them they always know something is wrong, that there is danger even if they cannot tell exactly what.

She smiles back, gaze misty.

“Of course, Mother. You're very wise.”

He never tells her. Of course he doesn't. How could he, knowing the way she could look at him, watch as the love which has kept him going dissolve into hatred and fear and revulsion. Would she curse him? Cast him out? Disown him?

No - she can never, _never_ know.

Whatever the hell Oswald is, the more aware he becomes of his condition the more he realises quite how much society is obsessed with these creatures. They permeate their culture, the so-called mysterious denizens of the world’s nightlife, reputedly prowling the streets for their next meal.

While every country has their own fascination with ‘vampires’ Gotham in particular idolises the elusive night walker, laps up every new piece of literature and speculation the city can create. Oswald has no clue why this fascination with evil is so concentrated in the city but it is an undeniable fact. There are even bars dedicated to them. Citizens go, dressed up in dark colours and high-necked dresses; some wear false fangs, others colour their eyes with contacts. People pay to live out sick, twisted fantasies; some even set up watch in the hope of catching sight of a real one.

Oswald goes to one once. Losing the ability to sleep leaves one with far too much time on their hands and one night he simply cannot face another book. He checks that his mother is indeed asleep, kisses her once on the forehead and slips away into the night.

 _Maison de la Mort_. It is an establishment littered with the highest acclaim, infamous across the whole city (heaven forbid the Penguin be cheap). Its sophisticated dressing and slow, intense bass-filled music reeks of perfected theatrics - just enough to immerse the fan in the world of the night walker, with also just enough decent music and good drinks to captivate the casual onlooker.

It is one of the dullest experiences of Oswald’s life.

He sits in a booth with deceptively plush velvet, lazily swirling an untouched glass of wine in his left hand. He watches. Young men and women and everything in between all dance, skin pressed together, bodies bucking and pounding to the incessant beat. Oswald has never been a particular fan of the typical nightlife scene (ironic now that he owns a nightclub of his own) yet that isn't the source of his boredom.

Everything is exaggerated, amplified. Each scent of sweat and alcohol and perfume shocks his senses like a taser to his nervous system. The flashing lights of blue and red and white, strobes and LEDs and everything so loud and big and so _much_ it hurts. His legs feel stuck to the seat, trapped in this pulsating room which threatens to crush him.

Soon boredom begins to verge on discomfort and Oswald has no clue why he is still there. Maybe his condition has awakened a masochistic streak in him. Or maybe it is because there are some off duty cops dancing just across the room and part of him hopes he’ll be caught. 

Or maybe it is just a blessed relief to know he can feel anything anymore.

“Excuse me.” 

Oswald blinks, head jerking sharply up. Before him stands a tall man dressed in black leather, hair gelled and gleaming in the flashing lights - a bouncer. Sweat dapples his creased forehead.

“Good evening, sir. What can I help you with?”

The man’s expression is stone faced, eyebrows drawn low together. “I'm afraid I've been asked to escort you from the premises.”

Oswald feels a bolt of surprise run through him, cold and sudden. “Why?”

The bouncer’s expression does not waver. “We’ve had complaints. You've been disturbing the guests.”

It takes a moment for the words to register. All at once Oswald is gripped by the mad, hysterical desire to laugh, to scream, to kill this man and everyone in this club who dare to worship creatures of darkness, dare to long to be one of them when it is this agony pain _torture_ -

“We have the authority to forcibly remove anyone who refuses to comply with house rules.”

“No, no it's fine. I'll go.” The words are bitter on his tongue. Oswald knows he could force the man to leave, to walk away, bend his will to his own… He _could_ , but he simply doesn’t care enough to expend the effort.

He steps out of the club into the smog filled street. Alone. He burns with an ice cold fury, hands shaking at his sides. Of course, of _course_ the ones who claim to adore things like him would find Oswald ‘disturbing’, would reject the very monster they claim to idolise.

 _You shouldn't be surprised. Just look at you_.

Oswald feels the truth, chill and icy, unfurl at the base of his skull. People worship ‘vampires’ for their perfect porcelain skin, graceful lithe movements, endless and eternal youth. 

_Why would anyone worship you?_

Oswald Cobblepot was never enough before, always abnormal, odd, wrong in some way - why should his second life be any different?

In him beautiful feline grace is replaced with a lurching limp, crippled leg unfixed by Gotham's freezing waters. Stunning, magnetic beauty has not redeemed Oswald's beaklike nose and dottled skin. His teeth have stayed stained, nails dirtied and skin... Well, there is no allure in Oswald’s appearance, no matter what words his mother may use to soothe him. His complexion is that of a corpse's: pale, drained and with a delicate blue tint around his extremities which has to be hidden with make-up.

There is nothing _beautiful_ about him.

Oswald hears something. Slowly, as if too sudden a movement could detonate this violent force of hate inside him, he turns. It takes a moment for him to recognise that it is someone moaning. The sound comes from a hidden side alley, nestled against the club. He steps forward, another stuttering step and the darkness falls away, like scales from his eyes - one of the few perks of his new life.

A little way in stand two men, both sporting dark costumes and brightly coloured hair. They are pressed against the wall, hips rocking into one another, hands and mouths greedy on the other’s skin-

 _Oh_.

Part of Oswald registers the appropriate embarrassment, knows he should look away but all the same he stares, transfixed, unable to wrench his eyes away from the obscene spectacle. Maybe it is because whenever they come up for a snatched breath he can see the one against the wall is wearing almost an exact copy of Oswald’s suit. There is another moan and, with Oswald’s heightened senses, it sounds like it's coming from his own mouth.

After an eternity it stops and Oswald feels as if the floor has been swept out from beneath him. The night air is too silent. He still cannot leave, no matter how much he pleads with his limbs to move.

And then, the one in Oswald’s suit leans back, lips stretched in a lazy smirk, and bites down _hard_ on his partner’s neck.

For some reason, it infuriates him.

Ice cold rage races through his veins as he lurches into the alley, jaw clenched painfully tight. The sight of that act burns behinds his eyelids; an insulting, revolting parody of what Oswald must go through weekly just to survive and here two strangers warp it into something disgusting and lewd and _pleasurable-_

He bites and tears and rips with nails and teeth and it is over so quickly for both of them, too quickly, screams cut off in gurgles but Oswald carries on. Even once everything in him tells him to stop he cannot quell this fury. It feels like it takes a decade for him to finally finish, until there are tears mixed with blood and saliva, until their faces and flesh are unrecognisable from before, until that suit is torn into shreds.

He stands, one hand against the wall. Blood, too much blood, pounds in his ears, bubbles under his skin. He feels dizzy, the smell of sewage and sweat and carnage filling his nostrils. The shame of it chokes him.

Oswald knows he should hide them, do something to cover up the act but he cannot. He is only stone and painted marble, there is nothing rational left. All he can do is run.

That is the only time he ever kills out of bloodlust rather than hunger.

In all of his time in Gotham's underworld Oswald never meets another like him. He is not even sure if others exist, yet while is not so egotistical to imagine he is the only one, he is overwhelmingly grateful for his continued ignorance. If he ever did meet another Oswald is sure it would end with his swift and lethal rejection of that world.

Still, it is not all miserable. His newfound abilities mean he is nigh unkillable - he has not put to test the stakes and beheading myths but he does know that whenever shot or stabbed (which does occasionally happen) there is no pain, as if his nerves are dead. Oswald still has to act the part but it can give him a little advantage.

Sleepless nights mean he has ample time to work through his reading list and carefully map out his plan to become King of Gotham. Oswald even gets his own bar, and from none other than Fish Mooney. That is an ironic victory because if all of Gotham idolises vampires, then the one who truly emulates them is Fish. Unsurprisingly she loves their carnality, viciousness and, of course, deadly sex appeal.

Not once after seeing Oswald again since his resurrection does she suspect that he is one of her idols. It gives him a sharp thrill of pleasure each time they meet, sweeter than any other vengeance. Deceiving, _defeating_ the woman who has condemned him to perhaps an eternal life as a cripple - it brings more satisfaction than he could have ever imagined. 

He plans to tell her the truth just before he tears her throat out.

Yet for all of his success and revenge, Oswald is not happy. He supposes he never has been truly happy in his life, but this is a deeper kind of unhappiness. Before, at least he had his mother yet now he must keep her at arm's length, spending every day sure in the knowledge that he would die a second death if she ever rejected him for something he could not change. Isolation and dislocation from the City which he is tied to pains him far more than the ever-lingering hunger.

As the days turn into weeks, and the weeks into months that despair only grows, expanding like a black hole set to consume everything. And so, he looks to Jim Gordon more and more as a source of hope. After all, if it weren't for him Oswald would not be as he is, would not have survived the river without his last words ringing in his ears. But, for all of The Penguin’s pitiful attempts to extend the hand of friendship Oswald finds himself rejected over and over again.

Jim's vision is stunted, corseted by a child's morality, black and white. Oswald does not exist on that spectrum and so, Jim can never be his salvation. He tries pathetically to offer the hand of friendship to the man but he spits him out, like a bad aftertaste.

Eventually Oswald gives up on that. Throws himself into violence and death and before he knows it the mob is his, Fish Mooney is thrown to her death and he is the King of Gotham. It is a glorious moment. All of his dreams, long held ambitions are finally realised, finally _real_. It is a blazing inferno in the midst of such darkness. He does not need Jim, does not Falcone, does not need _anyone_. He beat them all and now he lives as royalty. King of Gotham.

And then the inferno burns itself out.

Paranoia and emptiness cover Oswald like a cloud of dust. He sits on his throne and can feel his muscles freezing, feel the life dribbling away from him with each second that ticks by. It is as if he is turning to stone and cannot bring himself to care enough to fight it. Butch becomes the only person he finds he can talk to, the man made into a _doll_ and it appals him but he is trapped, a fly in ointment. The King of Gotham, yes; but for what? 

He finds himself asking that far too often.

As it would turn out, just this once, the Penguin had every reason to be paranoid. _Theo Galavan_.

He’d worked it out - who he was. What he was. The man summons him to his tower, just to tell him so. Galavan lays out all the damning evidence, all the things he’d picked up and pieced together to reveal the truth. 

“I know exactly what you are Mr Cobblepot. And that means I own you.”

Of course, it is terrifying. The first time someone other than Fish has found out and it is used as a weakness. Oswald fights past the terror though, spits back in Theo Galavan’s smug face that no one will believe him, no one would dare to stand against him anyway.

“It doesn't matter if no one believes me, Mr Cobblepot. I still own you because, I have _her_.”

His sister flicks on the TV and into being flashes footage of Oswald’s mother, captured, alone, defenceless like a figment of every one of his nightmares finally made reality. On reflection it is amazing it hadn't happened before. It is also amazing he didn't lose his sanity right then and there.

He tries to influence him but Galavan just laughs in his face, spittle slapping Oswald on the cheek. Whatever was driving Galavan forward, it hardened his will into a iron-like band completely impenetrable to Oswald’s pathetic attempts to bend it to his own.

Galavan smiles through every second of it.

Oswald convinces himself he's doing everything to save his mother out of love, but he knows that cannot be entirely true. He doesn't kill mayoral candidates, facilitate arson out of _love_ \- Oswald isn't sure whether the thing he’s become is even capable of love. No, he acts out of guilt. Guilt that he couldn't keep it a secret, guilt that his mother is bound to discover the truth, guilt that he should have seen this coming and protected her better.

Guilt plagues him like flies on a corpse and he tells himself it will all be fine, okay, normal when he gets her back.

Then his mother is killed. 

He half hopes the City will save her as it did him but, no. Her eyes close and stay closed. The worst part is the moment his mother breathes her last a part of Oswald whispers to drink her lifeblood, a voice whispering in his ear _don't let it go to waste_.

The impulse makes him want to throw up. And he would have done so. If he were human.

He gives up the hope that he is not alone. There is no hope for a creature like him, something less than human, a monster trapped in human shape. He can never be touched, never be stirred by anything other than a primal drive to drink. He is driven forward only by fumes of rage and revenge and then the bullet hits and it is like his body is split open and all the sewage spews out of it.

The moment that bullet bites into his flesh him Oswald Cobblepot dies. Just like his mother. He intends to starve himself, to leave Gotham, to dig himself a hole in the ground if he has to just to find an escape from this hell. There is nothing left for him.

And then, he meets Edward Nygma.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boy oh boy was that an angsty way to open a fic. I promise it won't be this painful forever but felt it was important to get this part of Oswald's character. Being a vampire ain't all sparkly fun and games. I'm really excited to get this fic finished and posted - it's been a long time coming as the idea gripped me and wouldn't let go. As a result, this the longest thing I've ever written and is also un-beta'd so it may be a little rough around the edges. Still, I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I have writing it!
> 
> As an aside, the word 'pijavica' is actually a name used for vampires in Croatia, Slovenia, the Czech Republic, and Slovakia, which literally translates to "drinker". In this Slavic mythology 'pijavica' is used to describe a vampire who has led an evil and sinful life as a human and in turn, becomes a powerfully strong, cold-blooded killer. Incest, especially between mother and son, is one of the ways in which a pijavica can be created. I don't believe the writers have specified what Gertrud's nationality so I took a bit of liberty because this definition is…an interesting one for Oswald.
> 
> Please do leave a comment on what you thought, and thank you for reading!


	2. watch me squirm baby, but you are just what I need

_And I've never played a fair game_  
_I've always had the upper hand_  
_But what good is intellect and airplay_  
_If I can't respect any man_  
_Oh I want to play a fair game_  
_Yeah I want to play a fair game_

_Don't leave me, stay here and frighten me_  
_Don't leave me, come now enlighten me_  
**Fair Game - Sia**

 

Ed has always been a man of two minds. Ego and the id. Intelligence and instinct. The man and the Beast. He has grappled with the two every day of his life, beat down the one only to find it rearing its head once again with each new sunset.

Liminality has been his only existence, and so he never questions it.

As a child Ed loves the sciences. Going into the lab each day at school, the scents and smells always tug on his senses, light up his eyes like magnesium and oxygen because he has never experienced anything else like it. There is a freedom in the unrelenting pursuit of knowledge, in losing oneself within a whirlwind of facts and figures and _words_ all twisting and dancing about him in riddles that are so, so beautiful. Ed makes a vow at the age of seven which he holds to for the rest of his life: he is determined to be the only person in the world to know everything.

Intelligence covers Ed like a blanket, a false floor which hides the Beast which twitches beneath. The Beast bides its time. Silent, watching. Waiting. It knows dear old Edward can't keep it locked away forever, no matter how much it is ignored.

Ed goes through life awkward and set-apart from his classmates. He tries to convince himself that it's a good thing, something which merits celebration not shame but it gets harder and harder with each insult, each casual brush off, each rejection. The words in his head which spin themselves into entrancing spirals of red and gold and bronze always seem to get tangled when he opens his mouth, sputtering out clipped, half-garbled attempts at riddles and word play. And his peers, they _always_ laugh. Instead of letting himself be consumed by fear and frustration Ed throws himself into his work, into learning, into ‘fulfilling his potential’ even if no one else recognises it.

He’s beaten up by other kids, bigger and stronger and faster than him, so often that the weekly encounter becomes as commonplace as receiving homework. However its normalcy never seems to diminish the quickly ensuing blaze of anger, those beautiful words twisting into barbed spikes, daggers of hate and fury and _I’ll tear you apart, shred you to pieces limb by limb, take your entrails between my teeth and **pull**._

The rage is so strong it scares him. However, there are always more than him and he can’t do anything, can’t make good on those secret threats no matter how much he shakes with fury.

At the end of the day he’s just Ed. Boring, spastic, retarded Edward Nygma; what could he ever do? He keeps his head down, eyes to his books and promises himself once he leaves this town he will be better and more brilliant than everyone else.

Finally, after what feels like centuries of waiting, Ed moves to Gotham. He finds a surprisingly affordable and spacious apartment. He joins the GCPD. For the first time, he feels that his life is working out, that his mind is finally valued. On his first day on the job he meets the most beautiful woman with the greenest eyes he’s ever seen; his very favourite shade. Ed smiles to himself, going to bed that night. The perfect job, the perfect city, the perfect woman. His life is finally looking up.

But soon that optimism starts to drain, a niggling voice always in his ear, whispering _you’re no better off here than back home. You think you’ve made it but you’re still nothing to these people. You will never be enough._

As Ed has been doing all of his life, he ignores that voice. He ignores the Beast rattling its prison bars within him, buried deep beneath layers of his consciousness which he has spent decades constructing. Life at the GCPD trundles on as normal and he thrives; and yet, he knows he wants something more. Something he cannot put it into words. It is a hunger which itches at his skin, _under_ his skin and never goes away. It is deep and aching and angry and yet he cannot for the life of him work out what it is.

Then he hears of a man who is single-handedly infiltrating and transforming Gotham’s criminal society. A man who is a master manipulator, murderer, schemer. A man with perhaps as brilliant an intelligence as Ed. 

_Oswald Cobblepot._ The name tastes heavy on his tongue, consonants forcing the words to the front of his lips, demanding all of Ed’s attention. He couldn't have ignored him if he’d tried.

If anyone ever asks he’s casing Oswald - or rather, ‘the Penguin’ - for Detective Jim Gordon. It’s not a complete lie. The information Ed gathers over the course of the ensuing weeks and months could be put to great use by the police department. After all, Ed has always had an eye for detail. However, his job isn't what makes Ed’s heart pick up each time he hears that name, _his_ name, spoken in conversation.

Oswald Cobblepot is _fascinating_. The kind of fascinating which lodges itself inside a corner of Ed’s mind and sets up camp because this is not a passing obsession, a flame which burns out too hot and fast to mean much of anything. No. Oswald simmers, a back-burner in the hidden, unacknowledged cavities of his thoughts. Ed doesn't even know whether it is him who is fascinated by Oswald, or the Beast.

For the first time he wonders if the distinction even matters.

Ed sees him once. It is in a night-club, one of those vampire haunts - _Maison de la Mort._ Typically melodramatic. Edward Nygma would never normally be found dead in such a place of course (yes, pun intended) - all of the dancing and ridiculous costumes and surfaces which are so _unsanitary._ But it had been an open invitation to the entire GCPD after a successful raid… And Miss Kringle had been going. Ed had made the decision to attend far too quickly.

He realises that night, with painful clarity, how much of an outsider he is. When his colleagues all go to dance Ed stays seated, eyes drawn always to the swaying from of Miss Kringle, glittering in a sequinned dress, emerald-green and just a bit too tight. She shines on that dance floor like the sun; beautiful, radiant and completely untouchable.

But then that brute of a police officer is there, dancing with her, hands everywhere and Kristen is giggling, looking up with coquettish eyes, moving closer-

Ed wrenches his gaze away when the tightness in his chest becomes too much. Don’t look at what you can’t have. Stare into the sun too long and you will be blinded.

To save his sanity he instead scans the crowd, watches the vulgarities of modern life with a bored indifference and, after a few aimless minutes his gaze catches on something. A man; short, dark hair crested over his head. Almost birdlike-

Oh.

_The Penguin._

Realisation comes to him in a bolt of adrenaline. For a second Kristen Kringle is forgotten, eclipsed and the rest of the blaring noise and swirling colours fall away - all that remains is the most underestimated and dangerous man in Gotham. Sitting, but twelve paces from Ed, stiffly watching the crowd with a ferocious intensity.

He looks ready to kill.

Ed’s head whips down to his drink and the noises of the club come rushing back to him. Fear fuses with the thrill of danger in Ed’s chest like a badly mixed drink. Should he alert the rest of the officers? Call Detective Gordon? If the Penguin was here then they could be in danger from some sort of attack. A quick glance to the officers confirms: none of the others have seen him, no one knows but him.

Ed fumbles in his jacket to retrieve his phone. For some reason his face is flushing- the room suddenly unbearably hot. He searches through his contacts, finds Detective Gordon, fingers tripping over themselves in his panic. Before he presses ‘call’ his gaze flickers uncertainly back up and his stomach drops.

In that singular second a stray blue light flashes across the Penguin’s face and Ed watches, stunned, as all that rage is transformed, peeled away like the sheet covering of a corpse from the morgue. He looks so...small. Empty. Unsure. Like he wants to vanish, to disappear, to just stop being. The sharp blue LED turns his eyes into whirlpools that are screaming of a deep, unfathomable loss and loneliness that threatens to drown him.

Ed cannot breathe. 

Because, in that moment, Oswald Cobblepot looks exactly like him.

The phone snaps closed. Ed stands and, as surreptitiously as possible, crosses the crowded room, approaching a tall, burly man in leather. 

“What’s the matter?” the bouncer snaps. Ed takes a deep breath.

“There’s a man over there, sitting in the corner. Short, black hair, dark suit. He’s been following my-” Ed swallows, “my girlfriend around. It’s really starting to creep her out.”

The guard raises an eyebrow. He looks over towards to Oswald and Ed knows the second he sees him by the small frown which creases his forehead. Oswald is quite the oddity after all.

Ed swallows again. “We’re really not comfortable with remaining in this- this establishment if he’s still here. I think he brought a knife.”

The man grunts again but he wearily uncrosses his arms and begins to move away. As quickly as possible Ed retreats to the bathroom, heart pounding beneath his chest. There are some rather suspect groans coming from the furthest stall along but Ed can’t bring himself to care.

With shaking hands Ed splashes water onto his face, letting out quick, short breaths as the cool water soothes his burning cheeks. He removes his glasses, gripping the stone counter as he feels his legs spasm. _He didn't see you, it's okay, breathe, he didn't see you, he didn't see you._ Ed looks up into the mirror and feels the floor fall out from under him.

A man stands before him, pupils wide and dark, red coating his cheeks. He looks nothing like the reflection which usually greets him, nothing like the Edward Nygma he sees each day. No: this new self looks exhilarated, empowered. Alive.

_Finally, we see each other plain Edward._

Ed blinks and his reflection winks back at him. It is all he can do to keep standing, gaze fixated on this new, unknown vision. His face is his own but...those _eyes._ Ed finds himself leaning forward. Those eyes are so dark. So hungry. So ferocious. Barely human at all. Why, they are almost like a beast’s...

 _Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum._ Through the walls the muffled rhythmic beat from the club sounds like footfalls.

The spell is broken. Tearing his gaze from the mirror Ed hastily puts back on his glasses and smooths his ruffled hair, breaths heavy and ragged. He waits until the low groans from the stall have stopped, until he hears the sound of a zipper and fumbled curses. Only then does he leave. Three minutes pass after sitting down before he checks.

Oswald Cobblepot has gone.

With a shaking hand Ed lifts his drink to his lips. It tastes bitter on his tongue.

Good. That was good. It wouldn’t have done if the police members had spotted Oswald’s presence.

Ed knows that night changes something in himself. He cannot quite describe how but he cannot get the image of Oswald, sitting in the centre of a club centred around vampires, out of his head. It visits him in his dreams far more often than he cares to admit. There’s no logic in it, no rational explanation but whatever flickering flame of interest had burned for Oswald before is now fanned into a roaring fire, unparalleled to anything he has ever experienced.

Because, the night Ed first sees Oswald in the flesh, first chooses Oswald’s survival above his duty, first saves Oswald’s life, two men are murdered. 

About half an hour after the Penguin’s departure a woman runs into the club, screaming bloody murder, and the inebriated officers rush out to investigate. The bodies are half naked, male, glistening top to toe in sweat and blood. Their faces are destroyed; flesh mangled and mutilated beyond recognition. Tattooed skin hangs limply from snapped bones. Blood seeps into the gutter like sewage. One officer throws up from the sight alone, another two from the smell.

Ed first ensures Miss Kringle stays inside, then he calls it in, gets to work, mind blindingly alert. Every cell in his body is screaming, skin burning up with hellfire because something instinctive in him just _knows_ \- this is Oswald Cobblepot’s doing.

Therefore it is Ed’s as well.

Eventually it is ruled as another case of these strange feral dog attacks, the ones which surface every few months at sporadic intervals and locations. Ed doesn't openly disagree - how can he? Those two men were dead because of Ed’s decision, he is sure. There is no proof and so he is not scared of discovery. What _does_ scare him is that he feels no guilt over his choice whatsoever.

That night sparks off a chain reaction in Ed; mind reeling through theories about Oswald. Mad, insane theories because Ed looks at the evidence and it doesn't add up. No one else seems to see it, or maybe no one wants to see it - the dullards are too wrapped up in their own world to see the truth of Gotham which is staring them in the face. 

But even Ed has to wonder...Oswald Cobblepot. A vampire? 

It sounds crazy. Insane. A legitimate ground on which to be sent to the old Arkham Asylum. And yet…

Something in Ed snags over the thought, like a thread over a door knob which is unraveling everything. It creeps back into his thoughts, incessant, unrelenting. While Ed has never been a superstitious man he is also not prepared to rule anything out, to ignore a possibility just because it doesn't fit in with the expected norm. Something instinctual just says _that_ is the answer; the words taste right in his mouth, just like Oswald’s name.

He cannot prove it, of course. Still, the moment the infamous Penguin walks through the GCPDs doors Ed is ready, grin plastered across his face because he gets to meet this mystery man at last. It is almost impossible not to mention that night at the club but he resists temptation, reveling instead in knowing something that the Penguin doesn't.

_I saved your life. Everything you do from now on is a partnership between us, my seal stamped on every lie, every manipulation, every murder. You **owe** me, Oswald._

Immediately there is a power play between them, an exhilarating give-and-take which Ed has never experienced before. It is a brief moment of brilliant exuberance; yet things soon start to spiral down once more. Officer Doughtery is harassing Miss Kringle, and it cannot stand. Before long, thoughts of the mafia war ripping its way through Gotham and the constant fear for Miss Kringle’s safety overshadow the Penguin and his mystery. Life moves on at a startling speed and it is all Ed can do to keep moving.

It is in this kind of frenzied whirlwind that Ed lowers his guard, relaxes his grip, so caught in the sheer pace of his new life. One day the Beast inside is restrained. Controlled. Waiting.

And then, the next, with no warning, it breaks free.

Ed kills Officer Doughtery. It is human, entirely human; a moment of mind-numbing panic and a knife positioned at just the wrong angle. _One. Two._ Those first stabs are innocent - the idiot practically walks into the blade.

An accident. That's what they all say, isn't it? Just an accident.

Ed feels the chains rattle, bars bend and snap inside his mind and suddenly Ed is gone, removed, replaced. Something else glares out from behind his eyes, his lips split wide and menacing into a smile which feels wrong, alien. The Beast thrusts and stabs and carves into flesh - free. _Free._

The metro scrapes across railway lines and he can feel the electricity in the air, taste it on his tongue. Copper and energy and he is shaking, his skin vibrates-

“Oh no. Oh dear.”

His mouth no longer feels like his own and he is standing in the middle of the road, a dead man at his feet and anyone could see. And he is _terrified._ More terrified than he has ever been in his life because he knows, _he knows-_

The Beast is free. And once you let the genie out of the bottle…

He laughs, but it isn’t a laugh. It is manic and desperate and possessed because really he doesn’t want to laugh. 

He wants to howl.

The trains crack again, lightning and energy, and Ed is back, just as suddenly as he was removed. The Beast has receded back into its crevice and Ed is master once more. Why it let him back he has no idea but he cannot think clearly, cannot begin to puzzle out its reasons, process what the hell just happened, he doesn't _understand-_

There is only one thought, branded into his brain.

_Hide the body._

Officer Doughtery is heavy but strangely Ed can lift him without much effort. He drives and drives until he is outside of the city, the forest calling to him. He throws open the car door, a good half hour from Gotham’s suburban scrawl and the scents of the forest assault his senses like salt on a wound. It feels like a homecoming.

Ed stands beside the body, hands shaking and he wonders how on earth he got away with it. Everything feels wrong, warped. Like eating a half-cooked meal, some unidentifiable thing inside feels off-kilter. But staring down at the man who was hurting Miss Kringle, _his_ Kristen...if nothing else Ed feels powerful. More powerful than he has in his entire life.

 _Hide the body._ With the forest filling him up with every inhale, Ed feels the indefinable urge to rip the man apart with his teeth and nails. He hesitates for a moment, then heaves the axe.

Of course, after that everything goes to shit. 

Ed will never forget looking into the mirror and seeing, for the first time, that same reflection from the club stare back at him, taunt him, mock him. No glasses, smug smile, glittering eyes. The Beast is finally out and it will not be ignored. Every word it speaks reverberates inside Ed’s skull, shakes his very bones, sometimes more like growls than any human language.

Ed is left alone and defenceless, fighting a creature he knows he cannot win. Words and flesh against tooth and claw. How was he ever supposed to beat the creature he always wished he could become?

Eventually he is pushed too far, nerves so frayed by the constant doubts, insults, jibes. His patience snaps under a pressure which has been building since his childhood and so he does the impossible.

“Go on a date with me.”

Ed turns on his heel, skin rippling under a surge of dark gratification. The Beast hums its approval and the ever gloating, ridiculing whispers fall silent. _Finally._

Giving in to the Beast is like standing in the top of a very high building, feeling the overwhelming primal urge to jump, and following it. Ed finds himself in free fall, breathless in terror and exhilaration as the darkness in his mind seeps into the waking world. The Beast twists his vision; what used to be petty annoyances (like that officer who perpetually chews his nails, or Bullock’s blatant dismissals) are now glaring offences, a swarm of rats beneath his skin. Sudden bursts of almost uncontrollable rage take Ed by surprise, not to mention a...spontaneity he hadn't before been capable of. It is disconcerting, finding new layers to his previously thought perfect mind.

Still, it does have its benefits; Miss Kringle is undeniably one of those. After all this time; dead, wasted time spent waiting she is his, truly _his_ and no one else's. Ed loves it. He relishes every time they kiss, every time he holds her, every time he rubs his scent into hers. Claiming. Owning. Possessing. Her green eyes stare into his and he is reminded of the forest. Of homecoming.

For all that anticipation it doesn't last long.

Miss Kringle is dead. 

The woman he has loved since he first came to Gotham, the woman he thought his soulmate, is dead. Ed’s hands wrap around her throat, his grip too strong to be entirely human and it is his fault, _his fault._

Ed kills Miss Kringle and there is pain, pain everywhere. An instinctual maelstrom of grief and rage and _pain._ It starts in his stomach, peels back his organs from the inside out, claws up his throat and escapes in a howl. The Beast roars with him. Everything burns, white hot, lacerating.

Ed blacks out, the world pulling away from him like a scorned lover and even then the pain doesn’t stop. The darkness seethes, smothers him as he sleeps, drowns him. Over it all he hears the rumble of his own voice, as gentle as a judge passing sentence. _Murderer._

When consciousness finally returns to Ed the world is wrong. Or rather, he is wrong for the world. He lies on the floor, body sheened with sweat and it is all he can do to simply continue breathing. His body feels like a jigsaw, taken apart and put back together in the wrong order. His joints no longer fit quite the way they used to and, as Ed gingerly begins to move, the bones crack into place like they've been broken. The Beast has cut him up like a surgeon and scars run crisscrossed along his bones, across his muscle, through his sinew.

It is terrifying. Not knowing who or what you are anymore. He spends the whole day in this suspended state, mind fixed in a numb state of denial. He stumbles blind, a half-formed monster, every ounce of willpower spent on remaining conscious. He chases after Miss Kringle’s stolen body, still pitifully fighting against his own mind and the Beast jeers at him through it all.

The world is featherlight, cascading into dust and he is heavy, cumbersome. Weight and load and he can barely move, barely breathe, barely think. Nothing feels right, nothing works, he is wrong, he is so wrong and he hates it, hates himself, hates this city for unlocking what should never escape-

_How. Did. It. **Feel**._

And then, everything is right. 

Ed’s vision focuses and he looks out at the world with fresh eyes. There is no more fighting, no more pain, no more barriers between ‘him’ and ‘it’. There is instead...peace. Equilibrium. A strange quiet settles inside his normally screeching mind and he wonders: why had he been struggling against something which was there to make him better, more powerful, more _him?_ Now, there is nothing more to hold him back, nothing to stop him from taking what he wants, nothing more to rob him of what is rightfully _his._

Everything is finally as it should be.

The Beast laughs as he vivisectors and eviscerates Miss Kringle’s body. She disappears, juices running down the GCPDs drain to mix with the other waste and refuse, as if she was never there.

And, just as Miss Kringle vanishes into nothing, so does Edward Nygma.

////

He is burying the pieces of Miss Kringle’s body when he finds him. The dead autumn leaves crunch under his paws, scents of the forest intermingling with the stench of stale decay in a toxic, intoxicating odour. It wouldn't feel right to say goodbye to Miss Kringle wearing skin, not fur. After all, Ed has her to thank for setting him free.

A man happens upon him as he’s digging. After the good few hours he's spent in the woods it shouldn't be surprising but Ed is all instinct and carnality. Fresh blood christens Kristen’s body and, yes, it's awkward but he nudges the hiker into the hole as well. Two’s a company, he supposes.

The moon’s beams cut into his fur and he howls - _free, finally free._

Then he hears something. Ears pricking up, Ed raises his snout into the air, muscles suddenly taut. Something else is calling to him. An answering howl, weak and pained, yet there. The chord it strikes is broken and mourning. A dirge. A song for death.

Ed howls again.

This partner of the night answers in kind.

Instantly, Ed is off, bodies and burying forgotten. The air bends around him, mud and earth turns to dust beneath his paws as his world becomes a blur of movement. Running. Hunting. Seeking. _I'm coming. Wait for me._

The little travelling motor-van is ramshackle, an odd metallic anachronism of civilisation in this world of wood and earth. But there is something inside, Ed can taste it on each heaving intake. Cautiously, he pokes his head through the creaking door and finds the source of this unexpected harmony.

A man lies, crumpled in a corner. Shadows cling to his form so tightly that they would shroud his presence from any human eye, but not a wolf’s. Tentatively Ed takes a step further, and no- this is not a man. How could it be? Life is as absent from this creature as it is from a pile of dirty rags. Death hangs about it, it's cheeks hollowed, eyes sunken and pinched closed as if every moment brings a greater agony than the one before it. It smells like a corpse. 

It is not alive. And yet, somehow, it lives.

Ed makes a noise, questioning and this...creature blearily opens one eye. It squints so hard Ed doubts whether it can even see him.

“Help me.” Its voice is trembling and cracked yet Ed feels a jolt of adrenaline go through him him because that voice is unmistakable.

_Mr Penguin. So I am to save your life a second time._

Ed finds Oswald as a Beast, but he rescues him as a man.

He doesn't once doubt his course of action. All it takes are two words and it is as if some biological imperative is triggered inside him, just like stabbing Officer Doughtery, strangling Miss Kringle. Oswald asks so he obeys. It is that simple. Clothed now only in skin he carries the unconscious body in his arms; it would appear those words were the last of the Penguin’s strength. 

Back to the car. Quickly dress to recover that precious warmth (skin is so much less practical than fur). Hurriedly finish his ramshackle burying. Drive home. Miraculously transport Oswald Cobblepot to his apartment without being seen, all of Gotham’s inhabitants seemingly asleep or drunk. 

Now Oswald lies in his bed and Ed can barely breathe, barely move for excitement, terror, uncertainty. He has no clue what to do. Possibilities and probabilities whirl breathlessly through his mind. _Oswald Cobblepot. The Penguin._ At last an answer to his burning questions.

He walks to Oswald, this strange little man who looks on the edge of death, eyelids closed and fluttering. _In a bed I lie, but it was not I who bought it. I use it every night but I never know I do._

“So Mr Penguin… What _are_ you?”

Deep down Ed already knows the answer, already knows what the result of this test will be but he must do this. He must be sure.

Gently, Ed runs his fingers through the matted, black hair, feels the dirt and forest residue scratch against his fingertips. Then, slowly, he traces his hand down the neck to the pulse point: two fingers, pressure and wait.

After fifteen seconds he grins. 

“Mr Penguin. It is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, you've been very patient until now - sorry to leave on such a cliffhanger but more will be coming soon (I promise!) and actual plot is about to start happening. Two shout-outs: first, ‘Fair Game’ by Sia, this chapter’s song, is absolutely perfect for this relationship, particularly on Ed’s side. Please go and check it out, go and listen to those lyrics. You’ll be amazed I promise. Secondly, Jokerteeth (http://archiveofourown.org/users/Moraearty/pseuds/Jokerteeth) is such a fabulous human being and her comments really helped in giving me the determination to sit down and write/edit this beast. So, kudos must go to her!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and let me know what you thought!
> 
> ~Secret Agent Codename Bob


	3. if you're gonna be the death of me that's how I wanna go

_You've got it all worked out with so little time_  
_Memories that I'd blackout if you were mine_  
_You've got a pocket full of reasons why you're here tonight_  
_So, baby, tonight just be the death of me_  
**Collar full - Panic! At the Disco**

 

Edward Nygma is excited. Perhaps the most excited he’s ever been in his life.

Oswald Cobblepot, the Penguin, very likely some sort of supernatural being, lies just a few feet in front of him. Asleep. Injured. Vulnerable.

And in _his_ bed.

Ed feels he has due reason to be excited.

The following euphoria after a controlled transformation from wolf to man always surprises Ed, however tonight’s aftermath is undeniably different. His stomach bubbles, hot spikes jutting through his intestines as nerves and adrenaline and the culmination of months of hypothesising and unbearable waiting stew in his digestive system.

_Rest up my feathered friend. We have a big night ahead of us._

Oswald has been unconscious for the last sixty seven minutes, caught in an unnatural sleep which seems both light and heavy at the same time. Murmurs and whimpers break through his cracked lips every so often but those are the only signs that the man on his bed is alive.

The absent pulse does not seem to contradict that description.

Ed has already taken a fair few samples from the bed’s current occupant; skin, hair, tissue, sweat, saliva. Unfortunately he does not have the right equipment at his apartment for blood extraction - Oswald did rather catch him off guard. The samples he has obtained are stored away in his refrigerator, each in clearly labelled test tubes and evidence packets.

The thought of close analysis and study sends another jolt of adrenaline through his system. _Patience. Good things come to those who wait._

Now however, after conducting these preliminary tests, Ed feels somewhat at a loss of what to do next. There are only a limited number of examinations he is willing to perform at this stage, before he has ascertained that the Penguin will actually survive the night.

The longer Oswald’s eyelids remain closed the more Ed’s stomach twists.

Ed begins to pace, hands clasped tight behind his back, then scratching at his neck, then wringing his palms together. He casts a cursory glance at the clock as the cuckoo tweets once, twice-

2am.

Abruptly he stops pacing, focus narrowing intensely on the sleeping form before him. Questions creep into Ed’s conscious thought as he wonders...Is Oswald dreaming? What would the Penguin dream of? Curiosity itches at him and he realises with a start that he has taken two steps closer to the man. _What would it take for you to dream of me?_

Oswald’s hand twitches and Ed’s gaze snaps down to catch it, vision pulled to the flannel sleeve which is just an inch too long. _Oswald is wearing his clothes._ The thought catches him off guard. Something darker cuts through the anxiety churning in his gut with the knowledge that soon Ed’s scent will have mixed with, maybe even overshadowed Oswald’s.

Ed licks his lips.

Seeing Oswald like that feels good. Right.

_Ownership._

It is then he notices he has taken yet another step forward.

“Okay, this isn't going to work.” Ed swivels on his heels, striding across the room to the kitchenette. The back of his neck prickles with an uncomfortable heat. “No more distractions. I apologise, Mr Penguin, but I have been patient for such a long time. Now where did I put… Aha!”

Ed straightens his back, inspecting the syringe. The pulsating green light catches the pale liquid inside. _Bingo._

“Be very grateful my work gives me access to a fully stocked medical supply.” With a ferocious speed Ed is back at the bedside, knees pressed up against the mattress as he leans over the other’s sleeping form. Oswald lets out a low whine, so quiet Ed realises a human wouldn't be able to hear it. 

He takes a long moment to slowly breathe through his nose. In. Out. 

“Rise and shine, Mr Penguin.”

As the syringe injects into Oswald’s neck it is only through miraculous force of will that his hand does not shake.

Ed can barely feel his heart hammering in his chest. He watches, stomach writhing. Every moment of stillness is agony. He waits. And waits. And then, after what feels like an eternity, Oswald groans.

Ed has never felt relief so potent or overwhelming.

“Mr Penguin.” The words are loosed from his lips in a rush of warm breath. He cocks his head to the side, leaning forward as his gaze catalogues every single muscle reflex, each movement in the other’s face however minute, because he must remember everything, every detail, every nano-second, this might be his only chance, he cannot waste it, cannot mess this up, cannot-

Oswald opens his eyes and all his thoughts dissolve into nothing as, just like that, Ed is back in that nightclub, transfixed, falling all over again into that seductive darkness.

It is all Ed can do to keep breathing.

He watches as Oswald’s pupils contract, dilate, expand, desperately trying to find some point of focus. Blue and grey and silver and black; Ed marvels at the dizzying swirl of colours, in that moment a dull rainbow sheen of oil on asphalt. And then, Ed sees himself, reflected, caught, trapped in that ebbing darkness, staring back at him.

“Where am I?”

Oswald’s voice is dry and rasping yet it still has the power to bring Ed back to himself. Immediately he leans back, giving the King of Gotham a little more room to acclimatise to his surroundings (and also to ensure he himself doesn't fall head first into those black oceans).

“Mr Penguin, you have no need to worry. You are perfectly safe.” The words he has run through again and again come out too quickly, almost breathless. Still, he hopes they sound genuine.

Oswald’s eyes, which have been darting around the room taking in every single object at startling speed in the dim light, abruptly cease their movement. The pinpricks of black focus entirely on Ed.

“Who are you?”

Ed cannot help a little grin, head feeling ever so slightly woozy. He desperately tries to regain control over his breathing. 

“Edward. Nygma. We’ve met before.” 

Oswald looks him dubiously up and down and, apparently deciding Ed is not about to assault him, begins to wriggle upward into a sitting position. “Have we?”

“Just once. At the GCPD.” Ed’s smile slips. The sheen covering Oswald’s eyes gives them a disturbing blankness which Ed knows had not been there before. In their last two meetings Oswald had been burning with so much emotion and rage and fire; now he just seems...hollow.

“I asked you a riddle.”

Ed sees the moment of realisation slot behind those murky eyes, a tiny spark of colour igniting behind the film which shrouds them.

“I remember… Are you a cop?

“Oh no, no. I'm in forensics.”

“Huh.” Oswald blinks again and the focus in his eyes flutters away. The skin on his face is caught by a pulse of green light and Ed becomes startlingly aware of how tightly the pale flesh is pulled across his face, just how grey and dull it looks.

Ed feels a heavy weight of absolute certainty settle in his chest and he _knows_ \- if he hadn't found Oswald when he did, the Penguin would have died.

_Okay, now or never Nygma._

Moving with the same deliberate slowness he would take around a flighty animal, Ed lowers himself onto the bed. “Do you believe in fate?”

“Where are my clothes?”

Ed feels one eye twitch as a growl of impatience threatens to curl out from his chest. “Oh, they smelled. I threw them away.” _Well, that is after I picked them clean for any refuse, bodily liquid or anything remotely unique to you… But that's not really necessary information at this juncture._

Oswald looks at him, dumbfounded. Ed forces himself to smile a little and nods towards a carefully placed glass of water sitting on the bedside table.

“Dehydration is common after prolonged outdoor exposure. Drink. You sound thirsty.”

Instantly Ed knows something has changed: Oswald’s eyes go wide, saucers which glint in the green light. His right hand reaches up to his neck, seemingly of its own volition.

“Thirsty…” The word is barely a whisper but it rings in Ed’s ears, clanging cymbals and gongs reverberating inside his head. _Now we shall see exactly what you are._

Oswald’s eyes refocus and the hand comes down to his lap. It clenches. 

“Why did you bring me here?” His voice is harder now, more defiant. Internally Ed rejoices. It is as if Oswald has woken from a deep slumber and his mind is once more his own. _Finally._

“You asked for help.”

Oswald makes a choking noise and Ed has a moment to worry if there is something obstructing his airway. But then he remembers - no breath. “I-I didn't ask for help.”

Ed frowns. “Pardon my curtness Mr Penguin, but you most certainly did.”

“No, no, no…” Oswald’s eyes dart down, the muscles in his neck going taut. Ed smells a sudden tang in the air, a different cadence to the usual scents of the apartment which he has become so used to.

_What is that?_

A wolf’s strongest sense is, by far, their sense of smell. Scents are a canine’s world. They mark property, friendship, territory, intention. Where language becomes void scents speak for them. And while Ed’s human nose is far more limited than his counterpart, since his reconciliation with his ‘other self’ he has found he possesses abilities he could never have dreamt of.

But he is still so new to this, so new to _himself_ that he only recognises this new agent for what it is a few seconds later. 

_Distress. Panic. Fear._

Oswald is afraid.

For a moment Ed doesn't know how to respond, he is so thoroughly _shocked._ Of every reaction he had been anticipating from Oswald, of every possibility that he would need to prepare for, fear had never once crossed his mind. What could the Penguin, a man who had survived death itself, possibly be afraid of?

“Don't worry, you're safe here, Mr Penguin.” Ed leans forward imperceptibly, the heavy scent of panic filling his nostrils making it hard to concentrate. “No one knows you’re here, the police aren't coming. You're safe.”

“I was so close. So close.”

“To what?” Oswald’s distress is mounting by the second and Ed can feel any semblance of control starting slip away, sand and salt through his fingers.

“You weren't supposed to… How did you even find me?”

“Look Mr Penguin, I think you just need to calm down-”

“I wanted to _die.”_

There is a palpable moment of silence as the words hang in the vacuum of air, a gunshot in Ed’s ears. No. That can't be right. It doesn't make sense. Oswald had... _wanted_ to die? How? How could he, how dare he-

“I wanted to die and you stopped me.” Oswald’s eyes are as deep and empty as black holes. Ed reigns back in the sudden furious onslaught of tangled emotions as his own fear mixes with Oswald’s. No. He cannot let this overcome him. Reclaim control, remove the emotion; this is only new data. 

Use it to your advantage.

“Well,” Ed pushes the glasses up his nose, heart shuddering, and throws himself into the breach, “technically speaking Mr Penguin: you _are_ dead.”

“How…” Oswald looks as if his mind can't keep up with itself. “Are you threatening me?”

“No.”

Oswald blinks. “Then...are you speaking metaphorically?”

 _Oh, don't you dare try and play me for a fool Oswald._ “No, no. I'm speaking quite literally, Mr Penguin.”

Oswald’s mouth sets itself into a firm line and Ed can see frustration, anger begin to simmer behind those irises. _Good. Anything is better than that emptiness._ “Then I'm afraid I don't quite take your meaning, _sir_. You're talking in riddles.”

 _It sounds good hearing him say that._ “Do you really think I would care for a patient and neglect to check their pulse point?” 

Oswald just stares at Ed - with every tick of the clock the blue in his irises darkens, settling into a steel grey. 

“I have thick skin.” 

Ed has to resist the urge to roll his eyes. “Mr Penguin-”

“It's been an issue ever since I was a child.”

“Please-”

“I hardly think your inability to locate a pulse point leads to the automatic conclusion that I am-”

“The faster you run, the harder it is to catch me. I'm light as a feather, yet the strongest man can't hold me for more than five minutes. What am I ?”

The words tumble out in a flurry and in retrospect the time hadn't really been right for a riddle but his tongue had been burning into the roof of his mouth. _My second riddle to you, Oswald. I am keeping count._

Something flickers in the other’s eyes. “Oh, I definitely remember you. And you’ll find my stance on riddles is unchanged since the last time we met, fri-”

“Breath. Breath is the answer.”

Oswald stares, incredulous. “Would you stop interrupting-”

“Mr Penguin, you are not _breathing.”_

The apartment goes still, silent; Oswald’s teeth clicking together the only disruption in the dead space between them. Ed inhales, steels himself and continues.

“In the last two hours since I found you, Mr Penguin, you have not taken a single breath. And no, this is not a case of ‘shallow’ breathing, nor a condition you have suffered from since childhood. Medically concerned right now, you are _dead.”_

The word hangs in the air between them, heavy in the air. Ed breathes in and tastes dust. His gut churns with electricity.

“So, you tell me. What is a man to do when he finds out the King of Gotham is a dead man walking?”

Ed watches as Oswald lowers his head ever so slightly, whole body going dangerously still. Instinctively, the Beast recognises exactly what this is - the warning before a predator pounces.

Ed is enthralled.

“Let me go.”

“Nope. Wrong answer. Try again.”

“I said, _let me go.”_

What happens at that moment is...strange. With no warning, it is as if a cold, metallic circlet is suddenly being pressed against his head, so cold it is hot, branding. For a blistering breath Ed feels it burning into his skull, crushing his thoughts, slicing ribbons into his frontal lobe. Oswald’s words fill him up from the inside out, all thoughts and desires seeping away as the compulsion to just _obey_ overpowers all else.

And then, it is gone. 

Ed blinks, his senses momentarily fuzzy, as if only just waking from a deep sleep. What the _hell_ had that been?

“I'm sorry,” Ed repeats, shaking his head as if to clear the strange haze and he catches a millisecond of genuine surprise flash across Oswald’s face before it vanishes, “I can't let you leave. You’re a wanted man - you could try and run but in your condition you’ll get about three blocks.”

Oswald’s lips crease, face souring. “I think I'll take my chances.” And with that he begins to get out of the bed.

Immediately Ed is standing. “That really isn't a good idea, Mr Penguin.” He takes a step back, even though another significant part of him is singing to move closer. 

“You will _not_ keep me here against my will.”

Oswald takes a jolted step forwards, then another. Inside Ed is screaming because what if he can’t convince him to stay, what if he has to physically restrain Oswald just to keep him alive and why hadn't his oh so brilliant brain even considered the possibility that maybe, just maybe, Oswald didn’t want to be saved?

“Please, this is for your own pro-”

“I would say it’s been a pleasure, friend…” Oswald’s voice is savage, as sharp as a razor on flesh. Ed feels fear thrumming through his skin, head swimming in a maelstrom of panic and fear and adrenaline and he watches as Oswald’s lips widen to a snarl, catches the briefest hint of teeth when-

Oswald stumbles, eyes rolling in his head and, without warning, topples over, like the Tower of Babylon struck down from the heavens. It is such a sudden collapse that Ed is almost too surprised to move - thankfully his instincts are often stronger than his mind nowadays.

He catches Oswald before he can hit the floor, his full weight heavy and completely pliant in Ed’s arms. Ed stares down in shock at the King of Gotham to whom it would have seemed to any casual onlooker had just been struck dead.

_This really wasn’t how I envisioned tonight going._

With exceeding care Ed lifts Oswald back into the very recently vacated bed, visions of carrying Officer Doughtery’s body into the woods flitting across his mind. For the second time that night Ed finds himself tucking the King of Gotham into the quilted covers of his own bed, uncertainty a tight knot in his chest.

Ed pushes his glasses up his nose. “Well. This is going to be trickier than I thought.”

////

Attempt number two. 

Ed is made to wait another ninety eight minutes before Oswald wakes again. This time however he uses these snatched minutes far more economically than before.

Oswald may not have admitted his true identity in words but nonetheless, Ed is convinced. The man had been showing incredibly worrying signs of exhaustion and fatigue, not to mention several symptoms of blood deficiency and while Ed may have rescued him from the woods his task is far from done. _Thirsty._ Ed knows Oswald needs to...eat. Without some sort of sustenance death could legitimately be on the cards and Oswald did not seem particularly averse to that possibility.

No. Oswald will not die. Ed will not permit it.

_I have saved your life already, Mr Penguin. You are not about to undo all of my hard work. Remember; you still owe me._

Ed is incredibly grateful for his links in the GCPD right then. Without them he would have probably had to have found a innocuous person on the streets for Oswald to kill. Thankfully, there are plenty of easily accessible records of suspected supporters of Galavan, ripe for the picking.

And Mr Leonard even lived just two blocks down. It is so considerate.

Ed hunts him as a human, two legs feeling unwieldy and clumsy compared the power and speed of four - yet he does it, for Oswald. Thankfully Mr Leonard wasn't a true henchmen, he had just helped to run Galavan’s election campaign so his crummy apartment is embarrassingly easy to break into, the man even easier to overpower. Still, he isn't about to tell Oswald that.

He is back in record time, Mr Leonard gagged and blindfolded and by some miracle Oswald hasn't woken in his absence. Ed sincerely hopes that it will be enough, that he can force Oswald to keep living, even against his will. He still has no idea _why_ Oswald wants to die. Ed knows that his power has been stolen from him, being thoroughly dethroned from his position of authority, and through the man’s sleeping mutterings he learns that his beloved mother was murdered by Galavan. Yet even so, it still makes no sense.

Surely these tragedies, losing who and what one cares for, should inspire the burning need for _revenge,_ not this complete and utter despair? Ed has followed the Penguin's criminal career since the beginning and knows that Oswald’s defining quality is his astonishing ability to overcome what should cripple, to transform what should destroy and instead use those experiences to eviscerate his enemies. Oswald is stronger than ordinary men. It is part of what originally drew Ed to him. So, what is so different about this time?

Fortunately he does not have to wait long to find out.

Another syringe is injected, Oswald’s consciousness is resurrected and, moaning he once more blearily opens his eyes. It takes them three seconds to focus on Ed’s beaming face. 

“Oh. You again.” 

“Tadaa.” Ed grins as he theatrically steps to the side, revealing the bound man behind him. Instantly, Ed can smell something in the air switch, intensify as Oswald sits bolt upright.

“Who is that?”

“This is Mr Leonard.” He tussles said man’s hair, earning him a whimper. Ed’s smile widens. “You were talking in your sleep about Galavan killing your mother.”

“I don't-” His teeth clack shut. “It’s true, yes. Why is that relevant?”

“Well, Mr Leonard here works for Galavan. Or rather, he did before he was arrested.”

“Arrested?”

“Oh, of course you don't know.” Ed barely stops himself from chuckling. “Galavan is in Blackgate. Detective Gordon arrested him for kidnapping Mayor James.”

“Huh.”

...Okay, not quite the reaction you were aiming for there Edward. 

“Oh, I thought you'd be pleased.” Not for the first time that evening Ed is sufficiently thrown off course. Despite every piece of information he has gathered about the man, despite every hypothesis and theory he has painstakingly constructed over months of research, Oswald Cobblepot still remains thoroughly unpredictable.

Fascinating. 

“I don't care. It doesn't matter anymore.” Oswald’s glazed eyes whip back to meet Ed’s. “So, just what exactly am I supposed to do with a Leonard?”

“Eat him.” 

Ed decides that Oswald’s current expression - entirely flabbergasted, speechless at his hand - is by far his favourite to create on the man, and one which he will endeavour to prompt from him for the rest of their relationship. At least, he will, if he makes it to the end of the night. “Eat him, drink him, drain him - whatever your preferred verb. Just, please, feed. If you don't you're going to collapse again.”

After a few moments Oswald seems to recover the power of speech. “Are you _deaf?_ I said I wanted to die. I still do. Why-”

“Because, Mr Penguin, _you_ may not want to carry on surviving but I'm betting that the other part of you, the monster inside you does.” Ed sidesteps around Mr Leonard, moving closer to the bed as he is gripped by the sudden deep ache to make him understand, to show him that he understands it too. “It's...it’s like there's this other side to you that never goes away, it’s always just there in the back of your head. Whispering. Angry. Hungry. I know what that's like, for that voice to never go away. You can't fight it, Mr Penguin.” 

Oswald glares at him, fury dancing in his irises. Slowly he begins to move out of the bed once more, hands clenched at his side. This time, Ed does not move back.

“You cannot know.” Oswald is shaking at the strain of standing, or maybe just under the weight of his anger. “You _cannot.”_

“Mr Penguin, I do.” His voice is a whisper and he wants so badly to reach out and touch, to taste the scents and pheromones which are spreading from Oswald like poison gas. _Go on Oswald. Show me what you are._ “I know exactly what you are. And I’m really sorry, but I can't let you die. You don't have a choice.”

Oswald takes another step forwards. _“What are you talking about?”_

Ed swallows, heart crashing against his rib-cage. “I'm so sorry, the drugs must be interfering with your senses. Otherwise you would have smelt it when you first woke up.”

Oswald shakes his head, mouth open as if to speak again but the words dry up on his lips. His eyes widen, gaze flashing to Mr Leonard’s prone form and Ed knows that finally, that metallic tang in the air must have registered.

The cut is small; a careful incision on the underside of Mr Leonard’s jaw Ed inflicted just a short while ago.

Ed can barely speak but he must. “You need to stop fighting that voice, because it is always going to win.”

He takes a step away, and another, body taut with anticipation. Oswald is clutching the bedpost, mouth twisted and barbed, absolutely livid but Ed can smell the change in the air; Oswald’s teeth are bared and the green light reflects off of them, quivering as it grazes their monstrously sharp points. 

Ed knows the exact instant the Penguin shifts from a man to a hunter.

The air fills with a scent, so unknown and alien it frightens Ed for a moment with how sheerly overpowering it is. Yet, some part of Ed, buried and ancient recognises it immediately. It is undeniably single-minded and deadly. Potent and powerful. It stinks of death.

Mr Leonard also suddenly falls silent; he too similarly sensing the shift but his pathetically limited human anatomy unable to identify exactly what. In that single second of stillness, Ed feels a strange gratification lodge inside his chest with the knowledge that he isn't like them anymore, that he is more like Oswald than he is the terrified human in that chair. They have both transcended, far above and beyond anything their pathetic, limited minds could ever imagine.

That one moment of realisation is both the shortest and longest of Ed’s life.

In days to come Ed will look back and half wonder if he blinked because even with his eyesight, so sensitive towards fast motion, he barely sees Oswald leap at the other man. A blur of shadow would sound clichéd if it wasn't entirely accurate, the ferocity of the other’s movement just a fraction too quick, too desperate to be captured by the naked eye. One moment Oswald is glaring at Ed, anger and desperation darkening those steel eyes, and the next he is on top of their guest, tearing out his jugular with his teeth.

Ed stands, stomach carved out of him with a switchblade and watches with unconcealed awe. Instantly his brain begins cataloguing every detail, storing them up to analyse and examine for hours later.

_Unbelievably fast even with the limp at short distances probably faster than Ed on two legs and possibly even four hunger and desperation bring out carnality teeth deceptively sharp probably able to bite through bone an area for later experimentation subject dead in less than four seconds feeding continues for further twenty three seconds extensive further study needed method of murder unparalleled in its efficiency skill and beauty most of all beauty..._

Finally, Oswald seems sated. He crouches, hunched over the mutilated body of Mr Leonard whose neck is flayed open like a screaming maw, as if Oswald had been hacking at it with an axe, not just his teeth. The head lolls back, only the chair backing keeping it connected to the brutalised mess of gore which used to be his throat. The smell of blood is thick in the air, a spray of red across the paneled floor, remains of the wooden chair splintered into pieces. Ed can’t bring himself to speak, he feels…

He feels so much. Too much. More than he ever expected.

Blood pounds within his veins, each sense focused and heightened to take in every single movement, every sound, every scent. Ed holds his breath, stomach knotted. He feels like he’s watching something sacred, something which perhaps none alive can boast of experiencing. A heavy silence has descended, the gurgling of Mr Leonard and Oswald’s small, grateful whimpers having subsided.

And yet, for all the reverent stillness, there is an unexpected urge Ed feels, a primal call which itches at back of his head. He wants to drop down, to pad across on four paws and join Oswald, to close his extended jaw around flesh and bone, see how his forty two teeth compare to the other’s thirty two. It would be so natural, so right to be one together in this. Delight in their shared strengths, exploit their physical differences.

In that instant, Ed realises the truth of what they are. No matter their physical differences, whether they walk on two legs or four, both are hunters. Both killers. They share an unbreakable bond, written and coded in their DNA. The possibilities of what they could do together, united...

Ed feels himself start to smile. _Oh Oswald. How long have I been waiting for you._

Oswald straightens slowly and Ed watches him take in a long, deep breath.

In.

Out.

Ed’s smile wavers, confusion flickering through his euphoria. Why is Oswald trying to breathe? His lungs are empty, surely? It is almost as if he’s trying to-

The answers slides into his head like a knife through flesh and somehow, something in him just knows: Oswald is trying to be human. Pretending to be something he’s not. Ed feels the buzzing in the back of his skull finally cease, the irritant which had started the instant Oswald had said those evil words. _Of course._ Oswald hasn’t embraced the truth of who he is, hasn't had that blissful moment of giving into the darkness which is there to fulfill, complete him. No wonder he wants to die.

Ed’s smile stretches, any worry gone.

He knows exactly how he can help with that.

That is the sight Oswald Cobblepot is greeted with as he tilts his head to the side, pale skin almost luminescent in the dim apartment. Ed watches those eyes narrow in on his grinning face and his smile freezes because, oh, those eyes are dark, pupils so abnormally wide there is only the tiniest sliver of colour, a grey hoop around bottomless pits.

They are furious.

Oswald moves a fraction slower this time, his injury obviously overshadowing the desperate hunger now his thirst is sated, but he’s still damn fast. Ed is on his back, a very angry, very _strong_ Penguin straddling his hips and pinning him down in under a second. Even as freezing hands wrap around his neck Ed forgets to feel terrified, the normal, human reaction to being put in a choke hold. No, eyes wide and heart beating faster still he is _excited, electrified_ by this, the same thrill he normally associates with almost being caught rushing through his veins.

The grin only infuriates Oswald more.

“Why did you do that?” he shouts. Oswald’s face is splattered in blood, teeth coated crimson.

“You would have died,” Ed forces out, choking as Oswald’s hands close around his throat. _Just like Miss Kringle..._

 _“I wanted to die!”_ Oswald snarls again, spit and blood flying across Ed’s face. Instinctively Ed’s hands come up to Oswald’s, just enough strength behind them to stop Oswald completely cutting off his air supply. Oswald’s fingers are shaking and while Ed can just about still breathe he feels nails digging into his skin. “I was finally going to be rid of this hell and you took that away from me.”

“I had to save you,” he hisses, pain dotting lights in his vision.

“You keep saying that.” Oswald’s face contorts into a twisted grimace. “So just why is that, _Ed?”_

_Because I need you. Because you’re the answer. Because if I save you then you might save me too._

“Because you’re special,” Ed forces out.

This time Oswald laughs, a harsh, high squawk which sounds half-mad, half-hysterical. “No, no, you don’t get to say that. My mother was the one who told me I was special and look where she is now. My mother was a _saint,_ the only person who truly cared about me and now she's gone. Because of my _weakness.”_

“You're right.” Oswald blinks, eyes wide with equal anger and confusion dancing in his pupils. Ed steels himself. “But you are better off unencumbered.”

Oswald looks as if Ed has just slapped him. His hands loosen for a moment, seemingly out of pure shock.

“What did you say?”

Ed grimaces, choking out the words with all the strength his bruised larynx will grant him. “You have lost everything because of your weakness, you're right. But that weakness is not what you are - it is that you refuse to accept it.”

There is a moment of silence where Ed’s words hang in the air between them… And then Oswald snarls, hands tensing around his neck once more. In a sharp snap of movement he roars forward, his face but inches from Ed’s own, blood-coated teeth bared. “Don't you _dare._ You don't know what I've endured, not being able to sleep, leave the city, walk outside in the fucking sun because this- this hunger never stops eating away at your insides. To have to hide what you are every waking second from the only person in the world who cares about you. To be terrified to ever lose control because you would lose everything else with it.”

Ed feels anger flare, feeling the Beast raging inside him, biting and chomping under his skin to fight back, tear this creature in two for daring to threaten its existence. “You've been given something most men would kill for; a second chance at life-”

“This is no life,” Oswald spits.

“Then it’s an opportunity,” Ed growls back.

Oswald looks livid, half-mad in the glinting half light yet the words which tumble from his lips are not furious, searing black coals. No; instead they are ragged, his voice breaking under the strain of them.

“I am _done_ , Ed. I have no friends, my Empire is in ruins and my Mother, the only person I loved, is dead. I have _nothing left.”_

 _You have me Oswald,_ he burns to scream, _you have me because I understand you, because I know you, because I am like you._ “You have nothing. Nothing of your old life, your _human_ life. Nothing more to hold you back. All the chains that were holding you back just died with your Mother.”

Ed feels the hands around his neck loosen slightly, as if the Penguin’s strength is being slowly but surely snatched away with each word. 

“I can't- I've tried, for one year and I can’t, I just can’t-” His voice is cracked and ruined and Ed can feel parts of him breaking inside at the sound of it, every decibel a jagged knife in his sternum and _Oswald just listen to me, believe me, let me bring you back, let me help you, let me remould you into what you should have been from the very beginning, please-_

“This is your chance to remake yourself, Mr Penguin.” The words are hot and sticky in his throat, like honey. Like blood. “I look at you and I see strength, power. I see a man who answers to nothing but himself. I see a man who others should bow before.”

Oswald looks down at Ed, pupils dilating at a dangerous rate and it is as if he is seeing him for the first time. Ed hold that gaze for every millisecond.

“But most of all _I see a free man.”_

Oswald’s mouth opens, jaw slack and Ed knows his words have hit their mark, can smell all rage and violent intent dissipate around him. He notices with a strange, impersonal shock that Oswald looks almost close to tears. Slowly, Ed pries the other’s fingers away and sure enough, finds all resistance has left them.

Oswald flops backwards, shuffling away until he meets the bed. Ed struggles up, breathing haggard and has to take a few moments just to appreciate that he is, in fact, still alive. Adrenaline is still coursing through his system and his vision blurs at the edges a little before clearing.

Oswald isn't looking at him, only staring into space. Ed gets the distinct impression that he can't see anything right then. Only darkness.

“I'm just so _tired.”_

The blinking green light catches on Oswald’s almost translucent skin, blue rivulets running beneath, veins dribbling off like tributaries. _Mr Leonard’s blood._

“Then sleep.” His own voice sounds raw. It surprises him.

“I wish I understood…” His voice trails off and he closes his eyes, pinched as if suddenly in pain. 

Ed swallows. “Understood what?”

But Oswald is gone, eyelids flickering in the strange way they had done before: unconscious. 

Ed cannot move for a long while. He is so keenly aware of the sensations of his body - racing heartbeat, blood pulsating uncomfortably beneath his skin, neck throbbing with fresh bruises - that nothing else seems real. He waits for what feels like centuries before he finally makes his way towards Oswald.

Oswald looks so much smaller in the throes of sleep; such a short time ago the indomitable Penguin, King of Gotham had filled the whole room with his presence alone. Now he looks like a husk of some dead animal. It would seem ridiculous, preposterous to suggest that this small, injured man could have an inkling of Ed’s strength. At least, it would, if not for the grooves in Ed’s neck, carved out by Oswald’s fingernails.

Kneeling in front of Oswald he waits for two minutes, watching the incessant flickering of the other’s eyelids with a scientist’s precision. He needs to make sure he is asleep.

Slowly, he leans in and presses one cautious hand against Oswald’s shoulder. No response. Ed licks his lips, mouth feeling suddenly unbearably dry, as with the other hand he traces Oswald’s cheekbone.

Still nothing.

_This is so dangerous, so unnecessary, so completely devoid of any self-restraint and yet, oh, and yet…_

With painstaking care, Ed inches closer still, presses his nose against the crest of Oswald’s head and inhales, finally, finally breathing in that scent which has been infecting the whole of his apartment since the moment he first brought him in and this cold, tight pain in the pit of his stomach begins to uncoil, stretch, unfurl, this scent filling him up from the inside, rising like incense and _it is so beautiful so right so perfect so made for me in every way the perfect blend of power and carnality and Gotham the most beautiful paradox of death and life and you are nothing like them nothing like the humanity you still cling to don't worry I can help you I can save you just let me in let me_

Slowly Ed releases his grip, exhaling in a flush of hot air. He feels strangely lightheaded. Woozy. Oswald’s eyes are fluttering furiously as Ed draws back.

“What are you doing to me?” 

His whispered words vanish into the vacuum of air around the two, snatched away by dark, greedy fingers. Somehow, he feels that the Beast is laughing at him.

For the third time that night he manoeuvres Oswald back onto his bed, déjà vu striking in its most disorientating form. Now, standing, it feels as if all the adrenaline has finally drained from his limbs and the ensuing cellular-deep exhaustion almost causes him to stumble. It would appear that Oswald wasn't the only one who was tired. Now where to sleep… Wistfully Ed turns his back on the bed, settling instead for the sofa.

Lying there, eyes closed and limbs folded in on himself, Ed calculates the exact probability that Oswald will wake and snap his neck while he himself lies sleeping, vulnerable. It is unnervingly high. Yet what he finds even more unnerving is his decision to close his eyes anyway.

Pushing past the endless questions of self-reflection and analysis he focuses instead on the pure facts of the evening:

Oswald still lived, Ed’s interference alone ensuring his continued survival.

He had seen without any doubt that Oswald was exactly what he had theorised.

And perhaps, most astonishing, Oswald had not killed him.

Thoughts and memories swirl through Ed’s quickly slipping consciousness. Fear and frayed nerves fuse with the aftertaste of excitement and the headiest feeling of victory, until eventually all that is left in the darkness are two metallic eyes, staring out at him in his mind’s eye, shining, hungry, and one final realisation:

_Oswald called me his friend._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it begins… You patient people have had to wait quite a while so I pinky promise that there will be a lot more Nygmobblepot action coming your way in the following chapters. (Also editing this makes me realise what an obsession Ed has over Oswald’s eyes, sorry guys)
> 
> Just a warning, I've now returned to the wonders of college life and free time is remarkably difficult to come by. Updates are going to be few and far between, least of all helped by my perfectionist editing, but I promise I've got it all mapped out and a good chunk already written. 
> 
> This was probably the hardest chapter to write because it was such a carefully crafted part of the show. It had to happen but still, I hope I managed to deal with this alright. Now that's all done, the real fun can begin. And boy, is it going to be fun...


	4. and it keeps getting stronger

_If I told you what I was_  
_Would you turn your back on me?_  
_And if I seem dangerous_  
_Would you be scared?_  
_I get the feeling just because_  
_Everything I touch isn't dark enough_  
_That this problem lies in me_  
**Monster - Imagine Dragons**

_He’s running._

_Oswald runs forward, fumbling through the darkness. His legs feel like lead, shackles taught against his ankles as he stumbles through the bleak nothingness all around. It is suffocating._

_Hands and fingers tangle through his hair. Breathless whispers brush past his cheeks._

_He is being chased._

_Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum._

_His heart pounds and blood rushes through his ears and Oswald cannot spare the time to realise why that is wrong. All he can do is run._

_He doesn't know what is chasing him. All he knows is that if he is caught, if this thing catches up with him, it will be his end. It is fast. It is hungry. And it will never leave him be._

_Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum._

_The blackness parts and out of it emerges a form, a person. He cannot make out its features from this far away. It is moving, frantically waving, almost as if it is trying to shout, but Oswald keeps on running. The darkness smothers everything._

_“Oswald! Oswald!”_

_Panic beating through his chest Oswald ignores the noise, pushing past. He can feel his predator, his hunter on his heels, its breath hot on his neck. He cannot stop running, not for anything._

_He only recognises the voice after he has passed the shadowy form. Too late._

_“Do not leave me!”_

_It is his mother._

_He doesn't stop. If he turns back he will become a pillar of salt and his hunter will grind him into dust. Oswald runs with tears drying on his cheeks and even those are licked clean by the shadows. The creature is gaining on him._

_Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum._

_Oswald trips. The world rushes up to meet him and he hits the ground after what feels like an eternity of falling. His bones ache, every fibre burns with exhaustion and ice._

_Something lands on his back. A huge weight crushes into his shoulder blades, impaling him on the blackness below. There is pain everywhere. Hot breaths, short and hungry bite into his neck._

_Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum._

_He is sorry for everything, sorry for failing to save his mother, sorry for failing to save himself, sorry for giving up. Grief and regret melt in his chest, leaving only terror. He exists only in nightmare._

_Oswald screams but he cannot hear himself. The murmurs, his scream, his own heart beat; everything is mute and hollow._

_All he can hear is the most terrible, hungry, aching howl._

 

////

 

Oswald feels fuzzy, radio static clouding his senses. Feedback rings in his ears, dull and smog-like while a green light pulses behind his eyelids. Everything is still.

Blearily, he blinks open an eye. 

For a moment he cannot see anything, does not know where he is, who he is. The only thing he knows is the cold, a blanket of ice which covers every inch of his body like a second skin. The world is numb and made of nothing, just like a memory from before, hovering on the fringes of his mind. He can almost hear the lapping of waves...

Gently, the blankness in his vision begins to clear and ever so slowly, a face emerges before him.

“Good morning sleepyhead.” 

Oswald’s eyes are drawn to the man’s teeth, a perfect top row yet uneven below. They seem somehow too white. He stares at them as his thoughts creep towards remembering who this person is. 

“Ed.” After a few seconds the name flickers across his mind. For such a short word, only two letters, one syllable, it sits heavy on his tongue with a self-imposed importance and he cannot work out why. 

This man, this _Ed_ cocks his head to the side, a sharp 45 degrees. “Do you always sleep so much?”

And with that the confusion dissolves. Memories flood his mind with a ferocious speed; Galavan, the forest, riddles, Mr Leonard, feasting, his hands around someone's neck, words crashing through his skull, a whirlwind of pain and frustration and grief and nothing, nothing to lose, nothing to fight for, nothingness which is black and hungry and festering and _devouring_ and a shock of ice-cold adrenaline surges through his body as Oswald remembers- 

_Ed knows._

Oswald fights against a sudden onslaught of aching, bone deep lethargy and struggles into a sitting position; the blankets feel like shackles across his legs and he half-wonders if this is what it is like to be paralysed. As a clock somewhere in the room lazily ticks by he realises with a strange, impersonal shock that he hasn't been in a bed in over a year. How on earth had he been sleeping? He hadn't thought it possible. 

“No. Not since-” Oswald’s mouth clamps shut and his eyes flick back to Ed. _This exhaustion is making you careless, Oswald..._

Ed just smiles. It’s disorientating, Oswald thinks, having someone who knows. More than that, Ed doesn't just know what he is - he has discovered it, seen it, _survived_ it. Oswald has no idea where that leaves them, nor does he have the faintest idea of what to do now. His thoughts are frustratingly sluggish, like he's wading through treacle and it is all he can do to keep his eyes open.

“How are you feeling this morning, Mr Penguin?”

Oswald opens his mouth but the words dry up on his tongue. Everything feels like it's built on sand and at any moment his whole existence could crumble away beneath him.

He blinks, eyes sliding away from Ed to the floor behind him. It is empty. Vacant. Frowning, Oswald sniffs the air and there is only the lingering trace of iron and bleach. 

Ed apparently guesses Oswald’s train of thought because he quickly speaks up. “Oh, don't worry, I disposed of Mr Leonard this morning. No one will find the body.” Ed clears his threat and waits for Oswald to meet his eyes before speaking once more. “Again, Mr Penguin, how are you feeling?”

Oswald’s jaw tightens. “How do you think I feel?”

He catches the tiniest smile on Ed’s lips before it vanishes. “Like death, I assume.”

_If only the universe were so merciful._

Oswald’s memories of the night before feel clipped, jagged as he tries to recall them; when he’d first woken he had briefly believed his plan had succeeded, that he was indeed dead and this was some sort of afterlife. After the things he’d done it would not be a stretch to believe Ed’s dingy apartment could have been his own personal purgatory. He had been so out of his mind with hunger and grief he supposes it is a miracle he can remember anything at all. Perhaps that is why in this moment, blinking in the harsh daylight, it feels as if Oswald is seeing Ed for the first time. 

Edward Nygma is tall, gangly, his hands clasped together in a manner which suggests he is stretched just a little too tight. Honestly, he couldn't have been more of a stereotype if he’d tried; thick rimmed glasses, not one strand of that trimmed, dark hair out of place and that choice of jumper, _really._

But hasn't he thought all of this long before? Somewhere, beneath all of the fodder of faces, he does vaguely recall entering the GCPD and meeting a man, a lab-coat who had buzzed about him like a horse fly...

_Did you know that male emperor penguins keep their eggs warm by balancing them on their feet?_

The man he’d met what felt like decades ago and the one who stands before him now are undoubtedly one and the same, and yet...something is different. Something about him feels _off_. The change is unmistakable but Oswald cannot quite put his finger on what exactly ‘it’ is. 

_So, Edward Nygma, somehow you have made your way across the board and are now a player. What ever shall I do with you?_

“Remember I said I don't like riddles? Well, I don't like puns either.” Oswald glances at the bedside table looking for the source of the persistent ticking but finds none. “What time is it?”

“You've been asleep for twelve hours.” Oswald’s jaw goes slack and Ed’s eyes glimmer with amusement. “That's interesting, if you don’t sleep normally. I suppose it must be on account of the lack of blood you’ve consumed over the days since your escape from the Manor, prolonged withdrawal from your one source of-”

“You didn't answer my question.” Oswald fights against the exhaustion and throws off the covers, stumbling out of the bed. The amount of effort it takes is mildly alarming. “And I get it. I’m weak, so I passed out. Not exactly rocket-science.”

“You know, despite the common appropriation of that phrase, rocket science isn’t _that_ difficult-” Oswald begins to limp away from the bed and Ed is already stepping closer, hand out. “Are you sure you should be moving about, Mr Penguin? You’re still recovering.”

“I’m fine,” Oswald snaps, pushing past Ed and heading towards the window. Every muscle in his body aches and protests at the movement but he needs to see, needs to confirm what his body is already whispering to be true- 

And, yes. A heavy weight settles in his stomach. The city scrawls out before him, streets and alleys, dirt and grime as far as he can see. Dim light filters down between the ever persistent grey clouds, hovering above the greedy skyscrapers which claw at the sky. Gotham. The one place he is tied to irrevocably, perhaps eternally. _Your Kingdom came at a pretty price, Penguin._

He closes his eyes and resists the urge to scream.

“Mr Penguin?”

Oswald takes in a long breath which he cannot hold, just out of habit which he hasn't been able to shake in the last year. He likes to think it brings comfort. It rarely does.

“Back home. Of course.” The words taste like poison.

_This is your chance to remake yourself, Mr Penguin._

For a moment Oswald thinks Ed has spoken out loud. Eyes flashing open, he opens his mouth to respond before he realises that those words echo solely within the walls of his own mind - yet another memory filtering though like a stuttering record. 

_I look at you and I see strength, power._

His and Ed’s ‘discussion’ the previous night had felt like like being stabbed, as if for the last year he had still been drowning underneath Gotham’s polluted waters and with a few words Edward Nygma had single-handedly lifted him out into the biting air. Those words - they'd cut straight to the festering root of resentment and hate in his core.

_I see a man who answers to nothing but himself._

The overwhelming sense of defeat and futility he has been suffocating beneath since his mother’s death isn't quite eradicated, Oswald can tell. A large part of him is still severely tempted just to scratch out Ed’s jugular, one last kill before he restarts his original plan. Sure, it would take about another week of crippling pain but there is nothing stopping Oswald from ending his existence, permanently.

_I see a man who others should bow before._

However, Ed has also managed to spark something else in Oswald that he has not felt in such a long time - curiosity. There are so many questions and contradictions circling the man like planets in orbit, so many unknown variables to consider. Ed knows more about Oswald than perhaps any other person in Gotham, knows exactly what he is and what he is capable of; and yet still he had said he wanted to save him, still he extended the hand of friendship. For the first time in months the tiniest pinprick of light ignites inside Oswald’s chest, the most precious possibility of hope he has felt in so long...

_But most of all, I see a free man._

Galavan also came in the guise of a friend.

Oswald bites down on his lip, hands clenching as that spark of light is snuffed out. Knowing doesn't make Ed safe, it just makes him important.

All he has to do is wait this out. Ed is obviously an...enthusiast. For whatever reason  
he is captivated by Oswald - why, he can't be sure of yet. His flat hardly screams ‘vampire groupie’ yet, Oswald notices with a quick glance over the conical flask shaped glasses and again the memory of a bleached white lab coat, he is obviously a scientist-

“While you were recovering I thought I could ask you some questions.”

_Exactly my sentiments..._

Oswald pauses before answering, not yet meeting Ed’s eyes. He needs to settle on a game plan here, decide just how much Edward Nygma needs to know, how much he is prepared to give him. Ed may not live long enough for the knowledge to ever become dangerous, but then again knowledge in itself is a dangerous thing. 

While it pains him to admit it, Oswald is woefully out of his comfort zone; weakened, an only half-buried death-wish and a potentially dangerous flat mate. He’d tried to influence him the night before but for some reason it hadn't worked. His will had receded from Ed like it had been burned - again, he has no clue why. Probably a result of his current weakness.

He could just kill him and be done with it. That would be the easiest option. Oswald is almost half resigned to the idea when he looks up and catches Ed’s gaze, and suddenly he realises exactly what has changed since their first meeting. _His eyes._ Something in his eyes is different, somehow. Darker. They have lost their innocence.

_But it's more that, isn't it Oswald? It's more than just growing older. Everything else about this man is exactly the same but his eyes...they look **wrong**._

Oswald feels another sheet of ice curl across his skin as his previous plan of action freezes. There is too much he needs to know, too many answers he is yet to learn to kill Ed just yet. Perhaps later but for now...for now, he will play along.

“Questions?”

Oswald shuffles forward, legs suddenly feeling too weak to support his body, and flops heavily onto the sofa. He winces slightly as he feels a tug on his right side.

Ed is quick to follow, pulling up a metallic stool to sit opposite him. His eyes are wide. “Well, yes, Mr Penguin. You are a rather...unprecedented case.”

“You're correct there, friend.” He doesn't miss the way Ed’s eyes light up at the term of endearment. The corner of Oswald’s mouth twists upwards. Oh, this is better. Manipulation. Ingratiation. This is Oswald’s speciality, his playing field. He feels as if he’s finally been allowed to look at his hand of cards for the first time and realised he knows exactly what the rules of the game are. Knows exactly how to win.

_Yes, Mr Nygma, I can certainly work with you._

“I don't mind answering your questions. On one condition.” Oswald purposefully takes his eyes off of Ed, examining his dirt-ridden fingernails. He feels rather than sees the other shift forward in his seat, leaning closer.

“Oh?” 

Oswald’s smirk grows decidedly cruel. Too easy.

“Well,” Oswald slowly draws out the vowels, eyes lazily trailing back up to meet Ed’s bright ones, “for every question I answer, you have to answer one of mine.”

Ed’s face splits into a wide grin and he leans even further forward. “So, it’s a game?”

Oswald raises an eyebrow. “If you like.”

“Fantastic.” Ed claps his hands together and the sound is so loud and sharp in the tiny flat that it makes Oswald jolt back a little. “I'll start. When did you change?”

Oswald blinks. Ed speaks too quickly, packing as much information into each breath as possible. It’s a little dizzying. _Remember, you can easily kill him at the end of this, it doesn't matter, he can't hurt you, he's not Galavan._

“Well, I ‘changed’, as you put it, a little over a year ago. After-”

“Jim Gordon allegedly shot you?” 

Oswald purses his lips. “It would seem you already know the answer to your question.”

Ed lowers his voice, conspiratorially. “I'll admit, I have had my theories. Hearing them proved correct is...very gratifying.”

_Theories. Right. Well Oswald, it looks like you've gone and got yourself trapped in an apartment with a stalker. Brilliant. Only you could manage something this utterly ridiculous._

Oswald tries very hard to keep his expression neutral. “Ah...and just how long have you had these ‘theories’?”

Ed tuts, shaking his head. “Oh, but Mr Penguin, you haven't answered my question yet. And that's the one term of the game.” His eyes twinkle. “I promise I won't interrupt this time.”

Oswald’s eyes narrow, gaze drawn down to Ed’s rather exposed jugular. So vulnerable. So tempting...

“Yes. _Jim_ didn't shoot me but that didn't stop me from drowning.”

The humour in Ed’s gaze vanishes instantly, replaced by a sharp intelligence. “Explain.”

“I didn't make it out of the river in time and I drowned. It was…” He frowns. Oswald suddenly flounders. Having never had to try and describe the experience to another person he realises he is bereft of words which normally come so easily. “Well, it was agony. I don't know how to describe it. It was as if...Gotham itself was filling me with life. I've been cold ever since - blood is the only thing which is warm.”

“Fascinating,” Ed breathes, the word holding almost a reverence to it. His unabashed scrutiny suddenly makes Oswald feel uncomfortable, the urge to run, flee rising up within him. Strange. Normally _he_ is the one to create this fight-or-flight response in people.

_Okay. First order of business._

“How did you work it out?” Ed’s eyes snap up at that and once again Oswald feels the unnerving urge to look away from those twin points of razor sharp intensity. “Was it only when you found me or did you know...earlier?”

“The man on the riverside, fisherman out on his daily trip, neck ripped open - do you remember? If I'm right he was murdered the day you turned.” Oswald blinks and the memories flood back; his first kill, first feed. It is like looking back through a fog thinking of those first few moments after death; everything had seemed so unreal, so numb. As if the moment Oswald touched land his fingers would slip through it, like mist, and he would be condemned to Gotham’s frigid waters forever.

Oswald coughs.

“You found him?”

“No, I was sent on the forensics team to investigate the homicide. The doctor at the time was complaining about me so the Commissioner wanted an excuse to get me out of the GCPD.” Ed pauses, mouth tightening ever so slightly as if recalling a bad taste. After a moment he continues.

“They put it down to feral dogs. I had to concede as there didn't seem to be any other explanation but the bite marks weren't quite right, there wasn't enough blood…” Ed clicks his tongue. “But who needs my opinion?”

It is like learning a new language, talking to Ed. Nothing about him seems to hold together - evidently he has been overlooked, underestimated and ignored one too many times yet here he is now, holding the Penguin captive against his will. Moreover, holding a being of far greater power than himself whom he just watched murder a man with his teeth. Oswald is missing a piece of the puzzle, some crucial data on _why_ Ed is doing all this, how he has either the bravery or stupidity to do so.

_Why did you save my life, Edward? Why do you continue to save my life when you know I don't want it? **Who are you?**_

Ed pushes his glasses up his nose. “Anyway, I clocked it as an...abnormality. A mystery. And I do so love mysteries.” Ed’s grin is back. “And then they kept cropping up. Every few months - strange killings, not enough blood and always put down to feral dogs. Recently I've been...familiarised with the result of dog-like mauls and these were not the same. No one else seemed to care though; no pattern, no motive and no one of importance dead.”

Oswald frowns. He thought he'd been able to cover his tracks pretty well but it would seem one or two victims had slipped through the net. “Alright, fine, but why did you think it was me?”

Ed waggles a finger at him. “Oh no, Mr Penguin. One question each remember.”

 _Bugger the man_. Oswald smiles, cordially. “My mistake, friend. Please, ask away.”

“How far does the mythology actually go? You know: sunlight, garlic, crucifixes?” Oswald considers for a moment before speaking, deciding quite how much he wants to reveal to this man who seems both strange and unnervingly familiar.

“I was curious after I first realised...what I was. Garlic doesn't harm me, anything deemed ‘holy’ hasn't burned me or anything.” Ed nods along eagerly, as if he already suspected as much, “Sunlight is...ah...tricky. A stray beam won't incinerate me but...if I stay out for too long it can get uncomfortable. I haven't really pushed my luck.” Perhaps that would be the key to ending his existence. He hadn't had nearly enough energy after collapsing in that caravan but maybe this time around….

“Hence the umbrella.” Ed looks far too pleased within himself for that deduction.

Oswald only smiles thinly. “Precisely.”

There is a sudden strange crawling sensation in his legs, as if dozens of insects were slowly burrowing their way beneath his skin. Oswald rubs them with his hands, the urgent need to speed up these questions itching in the back of his mind.

“Why were you in the forest in the first place?"

“I was burying bodies.” 

Ah. There it is. Edward is a killer. Oswald doesn't even feel that surprised, not after the man had practically offered up Mr Leonard for him on a silver platter. Still, hearing it out loud changes things. It certainly explains his fascination with Oswald as the biologically perfect predator.

“I've been murdering people.” Ed looks breathless, eyes shining as his grin grows almost disturbingly wide. “You have no idea how _thrilling_ that is to say.”

Oswald raises an eyebrow. “Bodies...so more than one then-”

“Three.”

_Oh, bless him._

“The first one was a long time ago. I already buried him - this time around there were two. One I'd never met but the other was...Miss Kringle. Kristen. My girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend. My dead ex-girlfriend.”

“Yes, Ed, I get the idea.”

“Wow, you have _no_ idea how good it feels to talk about this. With someone else who understands.”

Oswald feels bile in his mouth. He needs more answers and this strain of conversation is drying up quickly. “It's your turn. Ask your question.”

“So many to chose from!” As Ed thinks Oswald’s gaze wanders again, snagging on Ed’s neck and the dull finger marks imprinted onto his skin. _His finger marks._ Oswald frowns a little. He would have thought that the bruises would be uglier; in just twelve hours they had seemingly healed remarkably well. Was he really so weakened that he’d barely touched the man? “Alright...How long can you survive without feeding?”

Not for the first time, Oswald sighs. “I've learned not to push myself for more than four days.”

That wasn't actually true. Really he can last up to a week before the discomfort grows so unbearable it cannot be ignored. Any longer and he has found he quickly descends into a quivering form of hunger, desperate and willing to devour the first warm creature which passes his way. Last night Ed had been saved by his overwhelming exhaustion and sheer good luck; poor Mr Leonard had been dead the moment Oswald first smelled blood.

Oswald pops his tongue. “You didn't explain how you knew I was responsible for killing those people.”

“But Mr Penguin, that's not a question.”

Oswald tries very hard not to roll his eyes. Or kill him. “There are a lot of technicalities with you.”

“I'll take that as a compliment.” 

Oswald blinks. The curve of Ed’s lips is incredibly sharp, some dark, dangerous light glistening behind his pupils. _Is this how Ed flirts?_ Some cold, unpleasant squirming in his stomach whispers that it is. The realisation clips Oswald’s words, the consonants falling harshly from between his teeth as an unreasonable anger fills him.

“Compliments are to be given, not taken, _friend_ , and I am yet to be suitably impressed as to warrant one.”

Ed’s reaction is, unsurprisingly, not the one he had intended to provoke. Ed does not look duly cowed, nor does he seem reminded of the power Oswald wields. Instead, that light in his eye dances in the strangest mix of delight and determination, as if in on a joke Oswald was yet to understand.

Oswald only just curbs a growl. How could this man get under his skin so painfully with barely one conversation? “Explain how you knew what I was.”

_Go on Ed, tell me that's not a question, try it, I dare you, see what I can do with just my nails-_

“I saw you. At a nightclub. _Maison de la mort.”_

And just like that Oswald is back at that night, back with the stench of blood and bile and sweat, back with the cold fury, back with the shame and guilt and hopelessness. His stomach clenches.

“I didn't know you were there.”

“I know. I was the one who got you kicked out.”

“ _You_?” The shock is genuine - cold and piercing.

“Cops were there, you were bound to get noticed eventually. You would have been arrested. So, I got you out.” Ed licks his lips and Oswald hears his heart speed up a little. “That was when I worked it out. Seeing you leave just before the murders, the extreme mutilation of the bodies, a club dedicated to the worship of vampires… Everything just fell into place.”

 _It was you. You who made me lose control, you who opened up this black cesspit and allowed it to submerge the rest of my life._ Oswald clenches his teeth, frustration bubbling up in him.

_Right, screw this._

“Why are you doing this?”

Ed blinks. “But it's my tur-”

_“Answer the question.”_

Something in the viciousness of Oswald’s voice makes Ed pause. “As I said, I'm like you.” 

“You keep saying that,” Oswald spits.

“Because it is the truth.”

 _You are really starting to try my patience._ “Okay, you worked out what I am, that I will give you. So you think you're clever? Well, _Ed,_ I have maneuvered my way up the mob from nothing, played both Falcone and Maroni, singlehandedly ended Fish Mooney. You've killed three people? I've murdered more than I can remember.” 

“Mr Penguin, if you would only listen-”

Finally Oswald does snarl, the noise visceral and ugly, slipping out between his thin lips. Immediately Ed’s smirk falls, back straightening as he leans away from Oswald ever so slightly. _Good. Remember who you are dealing with._

“You have one last chance to say something intelligent. Then, I leave and you do not stop me.”

Ed stares at him, the intensity of it almost searing. Seconds tick by, sludge-like. Still, Ed does not speak. Oswald feels his flesh prickle uncomfortably, his stomach once again sickening but he does not break Ed’s gaze. _Choose your words with care..._

“I think I'll have to show you.”

Oswald feels an alarm go off in his head. Show him? 

“What- What do you-”

But Ed is at once all action, kicking away the stool as he stands. The brusqueness of his movements stuns Oswald into silence and it takes him far too long to realise what he’s doing, even when he does he cannot quite believe it because-

Because Ed is _stripping._

Oswald opens his mouth to protest but his brain appears to have ground to an abrupt halt, power of speech deserting him at this most crucial moment. He knows that if he could he would blush, would feel heat blossoming across the tips of his ears, web across his cheeks in blotchy red, his embarrassment and, surprisingly, panic so immediate. Horrifically, the memory of his mother almost discovering him looking at dirty pictures as a teenager breaks into his mind; it is so vivid that he can almost feel his old racing heartbeat, hear his phantom shuddering breaths.

Where before time passed painfully slowly now it accelerates at an unreasonable pace; Ed is down to his undershirt and boxers in what feels like the millisecond it takes Oswald to blink. Hurriedly, he averts his eyes, sorely regretting every decision which led him to this moment, cursing the names of Galavan and Tabitha and Gordon again and again and again with language which would make his mother weep.

He hears a thunk as in his peripheral vision he sees Ed has dropped to the floor. _Alright, this has gone on long enough._

“Ed, I don't know what the hell you think you're doing but-”

_Pop._

Oswald stops short at the noise. No. That couldn't be right.

_Pop. Pop._

He knows what that sound is, has heard it so many times in the last few years. And it isn't really a pop - it's more of a _crunch._

Unable to resist Oswald glances over at the other man. And freezes.

Ed is stretched out, body elongated far past the point of any natural, human position. His fingers are clawing against the floor, stark white skin the colour of milk against the dark wood and Oswald could swear his nails are growing, thickening. And is that... _hair?_

Ed’s back arches up and-

_Pop. Pop. **Pop**._

Oswald swears under his breath. Those noises are Ed’s bones, breaking and dislocating and cracking, seemingly rearranging themselves into new positions. It sounds like agony.

And then he realises:

Ed is transforming.

Instantly some natural response to flee surges through his veins in a burst of adrenaline, but Oswald can't move. All of his limbs are locked up, the persistent cold freezing him in place and his body will not obey, no matter how loud his brain _screams_ at him to run. His eyes are nailed to Ed’s shuddering form, watching as his skin ripples, blistering apart in the most hideous display. Finally Oswald manages to tear his gaze away but that does not stop the brutal assault on his senses as the noise continues; nails scraping the floor, bones breaking and reforming and underneath, Ed’s restrained groan of agony, all coiling together to create a jagged cacophony shrieking in Oswald’s eardrums.

He waits for well over a minute in suspended time before it finally stops.

Oswald looks back and sees not a man, but a wolf standing before him. It is panting, it’s whole body lurching up and down with each breath. And it is _huge._ The thing must come up to about Oswald’s waist and as its jaw opens Oswald sees great, thick canines and incisors jutting out of dark red gums. It’s pelt is the exact deep shade of brown which normally resides on the top of Ed’s head, so dark it is almost black.

Oswald flinches back into the sofa the moment the creature’s eyes find him. Something twists in his stomach, exactly the same sensation he felt when his mother was taken. The creature sniffs the air as it blinks slowly, gaze settled on Oswald so heavily he is sure he can feel it on his skin like a palpable weight.

There is a tense moment of silence, only the obtrusive ticking of the clock daring to break the vacuum around them.

Then, slowly, the wolf takes a step forward. Even that in itself is wrong because the movement is so measured, so calculated, as if it is testing his reaction. A moment passes and Oswald stays rigid, fingers clenched tightly around the arm of the sofa, body still refusing to move. Tentatively the wolf takes another. And another. Its claws clack on the floor with each step and between each there is a short pause, appraising Oswald before taking its next. As it creeps closer he notes in an odd, detached thought that the thing’s back is hunched, it’s hind legs bent at an odd angle, as if too long for its body. It strikes Oswald that if it wanted to it could probably stand on two legs like a man. 

In but four strides the creature is before him. Sitting, the thing’s elongated snout is only just below his eye-level and Oswald is suddenly overwhelming grateful that his new state of being does not require breath; if it did he is sure he would have passed out by now.

How the hell could Ed think this made them alike? 

_You're both monsters, Oswald. He shows his beastliness on the outside but you both have teeth and claws. Maybe there is more to his claim than you think..._

And so, taking a futile breath, Oswald tries. He tries to see what it is in this creature that connects them, what it is about this animal which something inside him recognises, tries to see not a wolf but a man...And then, a forgotten memory rises from the fog in his mind. Lying, crumpled in a rusted caravan, crying out in pain as death curled its fingers around his throat, readying himself for the end only to watch as out of the shadows emerged a gigantic creature, framed by fur, and two large eyes meeting his own in the darkness.

 _“Ed_.” The word is pulled from his lips as the terror in his chest softens, the ice melting from fear to awe.

It's the eyes, Oswald realises. They don't carry the feral look normal animals do; dangerous yes, but intelligence shines through them too. The brown is too human, containing too much emotion and depth and understanding to ever be mistaken for a creature. But that is not what amazes Oswald; no, it is that these eyes are exactly the same as the ones which he had woken up staring into.

_Werewolves and vampires. Who’d have thought it?_

The wolf-no, _Ed’s_ ears twitch a little at hearing his name spoken. Slowly, as if afraid of spooking Oswald, he sits back on his haunches, tilting his head to the side and Oswald wants to laugh because even with fur that movement is so incredibly Ed it hurts.

He cannot quite bite back a smile. “So it is you then.” 

He believes it. Absurdly. After all, why not? Nothing this last year has made the slightest bit of rational sense. If he can have a second life after death why not a man with a wolf locked inside him? There is undoubtedly some scientific explanation but that is for Ed, not for him. All he needs is to trust what he can see. So, despite the absolute unreality of the situation Oswald is on board with whatever bizarre universe he exists in because, honestly, what choice does he have anymore? Once more he runs his gaze across Ed’s form, taking in every detail and where there was once scepticism, now there is only an itching curiosity.

Oswald reaches out his hand, cautiously. "May I?" 

Ed blinks, once, twice, and Oswald thinks for a moment how easy it would be for that jaw to close around his wrist and _bite..._ He is so close to snatching his hand away but Ed moves first. Lips parted in genuine amazement Oswald watches as, ever so gently, Ed nudges his muzzle against his fingertips. For a moment Oswald freezes, unsure of what to do as a puff of warm breath caresses his knuckles. _Damnit Oswald, pull yourself together. It's still Ed._

Pushing past the uncertainty and confusion Oswald decides to be courageous. Cautiously, he begins to stroke through the dark brown matted fur, desperately trying to will his hand to stop shaking. The fur isn't soft; the hairs are coarse and thick, meant for insulation and protection, not an owner's petting, yet even so it isn't unpleasant. He is about to withdraw his hand, unsure how much more Ed will permit when he watches the wolf’s eyes close as he hunches forward, nuzzling further into the touch.

Oswald knows that wolves don't purr, but even so he catches a rumbling emanating from the wolf's chest, probably so quiet human hearing would never detect it. It holds only one message: pleasure. 

Oswald takes it as permission.

They stay like that for a while, the wolf’s eyes drooped closed as he nestles even further into Oswald’s touch. Emboldened by Ed’s apparent acquiescence to being petted Oswald reaches with his other hand, gently runs it over the head, behind the ears, strokes down the neck over and over. It is undoubtedly surreal yet something in the simple, repetitive action is oddly comforting. Ed seems to enjoy it as well.

After an unmeasured amount of time Oswald stills. Immediately Ed’s eyes open, chilling intelligence burrowing into his own as he pulls back a little. 

"You're amazing." The words leave Oswald’s lips without his permission. He cannot force himself to feel cross about it just at that moment. “Just...amazing.”

Ed stares at him, pupils diluting ever so slightly as they search Oswald’s face. Then slowly Ed leans forward again and, with one brutally sharp movement, licks Oswald straight across the face.

"Gah! Damn it Ed!" Oswald recoils, wiping at the slobber with his hand as Ed looks on, eyes disconcertingly impish. Oswald is shocked to find that instead of feeling that all too familiar anger bubbling beneath his skin, a half-choked giggle breaks past his lips. He can't remember the last time he has genuinely laughed at anything.

_Do wolves grin? Because how else do you describe this expression..._

Looking far too pleased with himself, Ed rises and turns, tail tickling the end of Oswald’s nose with the movement. He stretches luxuriously in a manner which is far more catlike than canine before he lowers himself to the ground. That low keening begins and after a moment, Oswald understands - the transformation is beginning again.

He averts his gaze as Ed changes back, shuffling off the couch to retrieve Ed's green dressing gown, the noise of it all still repulsive. Once the disquieting sounds finally stop and the heavy panting sounds more human he holds the clothing out, eyes still downcast. Ed takes it.

"That wasn't quite what I expected when you said we were the same."

He waits for a moment before looking. Ed's cheeks are flushed and he wobbles a little as he straightens, as if he has the urge to descend back onto four legs. But a grin is plastered wide across his face and he bounds up to Oswald, landing next to him on the sofa in a tangle of legs. The same eyes which but a minute ago looked up from a furry snout now stare down at him, shining. 

"What did you think?" He sounds breathless.

"I...uh..." Oswald tries to come up with a word which encapsulates the ricochet of emotions of the last few minutes. He fails. "There are no words Ed. You're extraordinary."

Oswald hadn't thought it possible but his grin actually grows, twisting into a smirk. “Was that a compliment, Mr Penguin? If that's all it takes to ‘suitably impress’ you I would have shown you last night.”

 _Maybe it was better when you couldn't speak..._ “It certainly would have saved you a lot of time.”

Ed releases a shaky breath and with it Oswald feels an almost palpable wave of energy emanate out from the man. He shivers. "No one's ever seen me do that before. You're the first."

Oswald's mouth hangs open for a second. For the second time that day Ed has completely removed the power of speech from him. As always, he falls back on what his mother always taught him matters most: manners.

"Well, it's- it's an honour Ed." He doesn't know why he does it but he reaches out, patting him on the hand. “I’ll admit I feel a little at a disadvantage... _what_ exactly are you?”

Ed chuckles. “Well, I believe the layman would call me a ‘werewolf’, just as they would deem you a vampire. Doesn't quite feel right though.” Oswald realises in a jolt that he understands Ed completely. “Lycanthrope is the best I've come across.”

“But do you...do you know how it works?” Oswald watches the other’s expression carefully, trying to determine quite how he would react to questioning. Thankfully, Ed seems quite happy to forget the terms of their game from earlier and begins to speak in a rush. He's probably wanted to talk to someone about this for ages.

“I've hypothesised endlessly about exactly ‘what’ this is. The different mythos suggests different causes - an act of punishment from some divine being, a curse from some powerful agent, a transmitted disease? Honestly, I have no idea. I've wondered if it could be some sort of genetic mutation, a recessive gene triggered by some sort of hormone…All I can be sure if so far is that I've been living with it all of my life.”

Oswald balks. “You mean...you've been turning into a- into _that_ you whole life?”

“Oh my goodness, no! I meant to say I've being living with something my whole life, this other side, something more ‘bestial’. It’s only been physically showing itself this last month though.”

“So you control when you...shift?” Oswald feels a flare of frustration at the limitations of their vocabulary. 

Ed pushes his now reclaimed glasses up his nose again, as if he had forgotten he needed them. “Yes. Well, mostly. I've only ever been forced into transforming once, after I killed Miss Kringle, and it...I had no control of what I did when I was changed. It was not particularly pleasant.”

_A werewolf. A fucking werewolf. I'm talking to a werewolf right now, and shouldn't I biologically hate him or something, aren't vampires and werewolves natural enemies? What the hell is my life coming to?_

Oswald shakes his head, looking down. “Sorry, it's a- a bit much to take in.”

"No, no, it's quite alright Mr Penguin. You know, I hadn't predicted for how nice contact would feel. Also, you smell so different-"

"Ed, what's this?" 

At some point after his hurried change Ed had rolled up the sleeves of his dressing gown, for the first time revealing his arms in the daylight. The pale skin is covered in scars; all are small and of varying shapes but they look too precise, too surgical to be accidents. Oswald hadn't realised he could still feel nauseous, but he does now. 

"Who did this to you?" Oswald takes the other's arm, pulling the sleeve up to reveal more of these cuts and incisions littered all down his forearm.

The sight of those marks burns ice cold behind his eyelids as the most unexpected shard of rage stabs through his chest. Who would want to harm Ed, to hurt him, permanently leave marks of torture upon his unblemished skin, who would even _dare-_

"I did."

Oswald's heads jerks up, eyes wide. "What? What do you mean?"

Ed is calm, far too calm to be saying this crap right now. "Once I first changed I needed to know more about who I was. So I experimented. And experimentation needs repetition and observation so-"

"So you cut into yourself to get skin samples?" Oswald's brain can't process this, can't get past the image of all those marks, can't push down this irrational disgust in his stomach.

"Bingo. With other samples too, of course. Here." 

Ed motions to a point on his arm. Around the vein there is a dark patch of skin; it could be mistaken for a birthmark but on closer inspection it is not quite the right colour and seems to reflect the light which hits it. "I needed to know how far the mythology went - silver on skin doesn't have much effect, just a mild irritation. Still, I needed to be thorough so I injected a small amount of colloidal, or liquid silver into my bloodstream."

"And?" The word comes out constricted and dry. 

Ed grimaces. "Silver does not...agree with my new anatomy. Not a fun weekend." Ed pauses. "Mr Penguin...what's wrong? Your grip is a bit, ah, tight-"

Oswald releases his hand, barely seeing the red imprints he leaves behind. 

“Is that what you're planning to do with me? Torture- _test_ me like I'm some sort of lab rat?”

“No! No, Mr Penguin, that was not-”

Oswald stands, shakily. “I feel sick.”

Ed stands as well and those wide eyes which were just a moment ago full of joy and exuberance are darkened with panic, desperation. Oswald finds it remarkably easy to push down the twinge of guilt this stirs as bile rises in his mouth. _No, that can't be right._

“Mr Penguin, I can assure you that you have nothing to fear from me. I would have asked permission before-”

“Ed, shut up.” 

Oswald puts one hand up to silence the man while the other clutches his stomach.

_This can't be happening._

“I'm going to be sick. I am genuinely going to be sick.”

Things happen very quickly after that. Urgency takes Oswald, scanning the room and spying a bin by the kitchenette. With a supernatural speed he flings himself across the room, collapses beside it as all at once blood and bile violently forces its way out of his system, spewing out of his mouth, stomach heaving. Almost instantly Ed is there, his hand slowly rubbing circles into Oswald’s back as he chokes on someone else’s life-blood, scolding the inside of his throat. He gasps for air but none can soothe him. He aches for warmth but his entire being is frozen.

It feels like it takes an age to stop. Almost as long as it took for Ed to transform. 

Every second _hurts._

Finally it ends. Oswald collapses back against the wall, body lightly shaking as his every bone aches with a cellular-deep exhaustion. The world is foggy and patched with darkness, focusing and unfocusing like a faulty camera lense. Ed disappears for a moment but reappears with a surprising speed.

He feels something cool against his lips.

“Drink.” 

Oswald has no resistance left in him. A cool trickle of water breaks its way past chapped lips and down his aching throat which burns with acid. But as precious a momentary relief this brings a second later he sputters, head lolling back and forth with what little strength he has left as he tries to spit out the liquid.

“Can't drink,” he gasps out, tongue now even more dry, like all the moisture has been sucked out of it, “only blood.”

Oswald lets himself be hoisted up by Ed and guided back to the bed, limbs feeling joint-free. He groans as his head finds the pillow, throat like sandpaper and eyelids itching with the need for rest. _Why is he able to sleep now, for the first time in a year?_

He feels fingers in his hair, gentle, stroking. They are warm. Oswald relaxes a fraction more.

“Not...right.”

Ed tuts. “Don't talk, Mr Penguin, you need to sleep.”

“No…never thrown...up. Before.”

He groans again, the green light behind his eyelids sending emerald dots dancing in the darkness. “Wrong.”

And with that oblivion takes him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, first off thank you so so much if you’ve come back to read more of this crazy fic. I know it’s been aaaaaages since the last update but this term has actually been the busiest of my life (uni interviews, coursework, birthdays, oh my goodness there’s been so much). I’m sorry I’ve left you patient people hanging but as my Christmas break starts this week I will - hopefully - be able to get some more pushed out!
> 
> I’m not too sure how I feel about this chapter - it didn’t click for a while, probably because I’ve never really written slow burn so I’ve been pretty impatient with just ‘laying the groundwork’. Still, I hope the banter and developments have made up for it. Don’t worry, I promise we are firmly on the Nygmobblepot train and are about to pick up some steam!
> 
> Shout out to some amazing, lovely, brilliant people who’ve done fanart *vigorously fans self*
> 
> Jokerteeth for a fabulous Oswald ( http://jokerteeth.tumblr.com/tagged/didn%27t-know-what-to-do-with-the-eyes )  
> And a brilliant, stuff-of-nightmares Ed  
> (http://jokerteeth.tumblr.com/tagged/Red-in-tooth-and-claw )
> 
> And then look_turtles for this lovely cover art ( http://archiveofourown.org/works/8197190?view_adult=true ) 
> 
> Still not over it. Thank you all so much!
> 
> Alright, longest notes ever finished. To end can we all take a collective moment to scream about canonical Ed/Oswald in Gotham? … Alright. Thank you. See you in the next update; things are about to get interesting.


	5. I want a scar that looks just like you

_I'm here trying not to bite your neck_  
_but it's beautiful and I'm gonna get_  
_so drunk on you and kill your friends._  
_You'll need me and we can be obsessed_  
_and I can touch your hair and taste your skin_  
_the ghosts won't matter 'cause we'll hide in sin_  
**Vampire Smile - Kyla la Grange**

 

_Black._

_Blue._

_Red._

_Colours pulse in and out, in and out, bright hot and blistering behind Ed’s eyelids. He doesn't know why his eyes are closed. He doesn't know what the colours mean. He doesn't know what that loud, booming noise is._

_Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum._

_Ed doesn't like not knowing. So he opens his eyes._

_Blue. Red. Purple. The colours are blinding, a kaleidoscope stuck in his eyes like gravel but he blinks them away._

_“Nervous?”_

_Ed now sees he is in a nightclub. A crowd surrounds him, their breath and bodies pressing up against him, claustrophobically close. And Miss Kringle is dancing with him._

_“Ed, just relax. You look like a ghost.”_

_Miss Kringle throws back her head and laughs, carefree. She links her arms around his neck and pulls him closer. She isn't wearing her glasses._

_“Isn't this what you wanted?”_

_Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum._

_They dance for an eternity, bucking against the incessant beating pulse. Miss Kringle keeps laughing. Why, Ed is not sure. There is a flash of red and it takes him far too long to realise what it is._

_Miss Kringle reaches up a hand and wipes away at the nose bleed. She stares at the smudge of red on her skin and laughs again. She says something but Ed doesn't hear it. The blood keeps coming. It trickles out of her nose, running over her lips, more and more and more. And then it’s coming out of her eyes, her ears and her mouth widens again and it dribbles out of the corners like smudged lipstick._

_Ed tries to move but her arms are prison bars, immovable robs. Miss Kringle keeps on laughing, cheeks split wide and her teeth are rotting, falling out, Ed can feel them clattering off his shoes._

_Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum._

_Her skin, her beautiful skin, peels like waterlogged wallpaper, hair falling in clumps. She is still laughing. Miss Kringle’s right eye bulges for a moment, a green light glancing her forest iris, and then out it pops like a champagne cork, a maggot thrusting its way through. It hits Ed on the cheek._

_“He’s going to die too. Just like me.”_

_Ed is about to throw up, the smell is so strong, filling his nostrils, rotting meat, putrid-_

_“Catch him if you can.”_

_And finally Miss Kringle’s skull splits in two, a swarm of flies erupting as she collapses into dust and worms._

_Immediately Ed scrambles back, tripping over himself to get away. The crowd around him comes into focus; grotesque, large clown faces all guffawing, laughing, crying, their carnival limbs jerking in odd, robotic movements and still that incessant beat, so loud he has to cover his ears._

_Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum._

_He realises where he is. Maison de la Morte. The lights are so dazzling he hadn't noticed. It is then that he sees him, Oswald Cobblepot, waddling awkwardly away as the crowd swallows him up. Ed yells out his name, screams it but the noise is drowning out everything, like some giant Titan is trampling overhead. So he begins to run._

_After eons he reaches him, ejected out of the writhing mass with a forceful shove._

_Oswald stands in front of him and all is dark._

_“You're here to save me?”_

_Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum._

_Ed tries to answer but the pounding noise drowns out his words. Oswald steps towards him and suddenly Ed feels the darkness wrap around his wrists like silver chains. His limbs are yanked upwards, stretched out as if on a wrack and he can barely move. His struggling only makes the invisible chains pull tighter._

_Oswald takes another step and he is so close now, so achingly close. His eyes have no colour, they are just pits of tar. The dancing lights reflect off them. Red. Purple. Green._

_“Haven't you worked it out yet, friend?”_

_He reaches up a hand and gently presses his fingers against Ed’s cheekbone. There is a hissing noise, like snakes, like steam. Ed looks down and watches as the fingers Oswald still holds to his cheek begin to dissolve, Ed’s skin like acid. Ed tries to jerk his head away but it is too late, he can only stare in horror as the digits melt down to the second knuckle._

_Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum._

_“You can't save me, Edward.”_

_No, no, please, get away, don't touch me, Oswald, **no-**_

_“All you can do is kill me.”_

_Oswald kisses him and Ed can feel the other man starting to disintegrate, the face of his idol peeling and melting and pouring down his throat, hot and sticky and all Ed can do is scream and scream and scream…_

////

“Ed, stop hovering. I can hear you thinking from here.”

_Mr Penguin, I believe you'll find that statement physically impossible...then again, vampiric life after death is also technically ‘impossible’. Perhaps I should remove that word from my vernacular._

It is nearing 21:00, the sky having long lost any lingering remnants from sunset. A few hours ago Ed had returned back from a very disconcerting day at the GCPD to miraculously discover that Oswald Cobblepot was still in his apartment. Just as he has been, for two whole days now. 

He is only just now beginning to feel the reality of the situation sink in. After all, the probability of it all (Oswald, the King of Gotham, a mass murderer and a vampire freely choosing and continuing to choose to stay in _Edward Nygma’s_ apartment) does not exactly lend itself to a plausible reality. He may have even been tempted to examine the possibility that he really had gone crazy, this last month being nothing more than a grief-induced hallucination...at least he would, if not for the strange new scent which now pervades his apartment. Oswald’s scent.

For some reason that alone is all he needs to ground him. It reminds him on some base, primal level that this is real and whole and an opportunity he cannot screw up.

“My apologies, Mr Penguin. I just...have a lot on my mind.” 

Oswald raises an eyebrow, still somehow managing to look dignified despite being dressed only in Ed’s pyjamas (newly washed, all bloodstains removed) and lounging on a sofa which is well past it's time, feet propped up on the coffee table. Also wearing Ed’s slippers.

...Okay, so maybe he still has a little way to go before he totally believes any of this is actually happening.

Waking yesterday after his third venture into unconsciousness in this apartment had left Oswald in a remarkably bad mood. Well, Ed is yet to see him in a ‘good mood’ (maybe moods are all relative to Oswald), however he had been particularly snarky. Vomiting, along with sleep, are apparently sensations the man has not experienced since death and do not particularly agree with him.

This bad tempered disposition had led to an uninspired reaction at learning that Ed still needed to continue going to work at the GCPD: 

_“So, for now, I'm supposed to just...what? Wait here all day and night?”_

_“Since entering my flat you've fainted three times, so, yes. Mr Penguin, you require rest to recover.”_

_“And while I'm ‘recovering’ what exactly do you suggest I do with my copious amount of free time?”_

_“I have books. TV. A record player. Think of it as a vacation.”_

_Oswald had given Ed a long, withering look._

_“Do you play the piano? I've got some sheet music. There's one particular piece you'd love, called My Mother-”_

_Oswald had sighed, going back to reading his book._

_“...I’ll take that as a no.”_

Still, he hadn't tried to leave again. Moreover, Ed had made it through another night with Oswald, this time a very conscious Oswald, in his flat and still somehow avoided asphyxiation. Ed supposes he should count his blessings.

Waking up that morning to see the sight of the Penguin, King of Gotham. sitting exactly where he had been when Ed had closed his eyes last night had been incredibly disconcerting. And then being greeted by a quiet _‘thank God you don't snore’_... yes, disconcerting is one word for it. Domestic is another.

He ignores the thrill that sparks beneath his skin at the thought of the words ‘the Penguin’ and ‘domestic’ together in a sentence. 

“I would have thought it impossible for you to breathe without having ‘much on your mind’.”

Ed blinks back to reality, gaze focusing once again on Oswald’s face, catching the way his lips twitch in bemusement. 

Ed knows it is a joke, one which has been made many times at his expense, yet Oswald does not look cruel as he regards Ed. It is a genuine observation yet spoken with an undercurrent of delicate familiarity, as if Oswald is almost sure of its truth yet not quite. Seeing him at that moment...it is a far more human side to Oswald than he has been permitted to glimpse before, the softness in his gaze slipping through without him probably even realising it.

“No, I suppose it would be.” _But that’s what makes me brilliant._

Oswald’s eyes glitter. “Don't worry. I know the feeling.”

Ed allows himself to smile a little. It feels nice, not feeling the need to be defensive about his mind but instead feeling...proud. Understood. “And my ‘hovering’ is because there is something I would like to ask.”

Immediately the amusement in Oswald’s eyes hardens, a wall slamming down as Ed can practically see him readying his mental defences. Ed notes with vague surprise that he feels unreasonably disappointed by this.

“Ask away, friend.”

_‘Friend’. Oh, if only you meant that Oswald, if only you didn't use that word as such a casual, belittling term of endearment, didn't call Jim Gordon and Falcone and Galavan friend once, don't you know that word is a weapon and it cuts, why must you wield it so flippantly, why must that word mean **nothing-**_

Ed fumbles as he slides his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “Well, after Mr Leonard did not, uh, agree with you I assume that you're going to need more- more...”

“Blood.” Oswald’s lips press together as he manages to look even more unimpressed. “You can say it, you know. I'm not about to gouge out your vocal chords just because you say the word out loud.”

He watches Oswald’s fingers slowly close the book he’s holding, watches as they curl around its spine and tries desperately not to think of those same fingers curling around his neck, tries not to feel the phantom bite of nails against his pulse point, tries not to remember how those digits had been so cold against his skin they had _burned._

Ed swallows thickly. “No, Mr Penguin. Of course not.”

While Ed may not be particularly astute at social interaction even he can tell that there is an awkwardness to his and Oswald’s tentative friendship. A strain still pervades every conversation, an ever-present reminder just below the surface that less than twenty four hours ago Oswald had very nearly ripped open Ed’s throat. He knows it wouldn't quite feel right to go from outright assault to singing around Ed’s piano, indeed a part of him even enjoys the tension but even so...

He knows there is more than this. He knows he wants more than this.

“You're right though. I will need more and,” Oswald gives him a pointed look, “I'm assuming I'm still ‘house-bound’?”

“Yes, you are. Just for now though,” he hastily adds, careful not to make it sound like he is giving an order. He imagines Oswald would not take kindly to that.

“So, we’re repeating Mr Leonard’s ‘meals-on-wheels’?”

“I imagine it would work well a second time. Two birds with one stone; you don't die of starvation while also gaining another small moment of revenge against Galavan… But that, ah, wasn't what I wanted to ask.” Oswald opens his mouth, frowning but Ed barrels on ahead, knowing that if he doesn't ask now he never will. He steps forward, hands clasped tightly in front of him. 

“Mr Penguin, as you're aware I'm entering a bit of a new chapter in my life, discovering who I really am, realising my potential, etcetera, etcetera. But I know I can only get so far on my own.”

There is a beat of silence. Oswald inclines his head, waiting for Ed to continue. He inhales slowly through his nose, and does so.

“I'm still so incredibly new at all... _this._ ” He waves his hand vaguely, not entirely sure what he is actually gesturing to. “I've only really known about this part of myself for a month, known I could- would _want_ to hurt people. Kill people.”

He takes another steadying breath and catches the sharp, intense look Oswald has levelled on him. “You on the other hand, Mr Penguin, are incredibly experienced. There is so much I could learn from you. I mean, you've been doing this for over a year, and not just the supernatural part; you've worked your way up the mob, kept your abilities hidden, murdered-”

“I'm well aware of what I've done.” Oswald’s expression is remarkably blank, a carefully crafted neutrality which gives nothing away of his thoughts. It is stunningly unnerving. “Cut to the chase. What is it you want to ask me?”

_Now or never._

“I want you…” Ed licks his lips. “I want you to teach me how to kill.”

Ed’s heartbeat is elevated, adrenaline thrumming beneath his skin as he waits for an answer. Oswald stares for a moment, the tiniest frown creasing his forehead as he just...looks at Ed. Those dark points rake down the entire length of his body and while Ed knows the look is methodical, assessing and not in the least leering or appreciative he still has to fight down a shiver. Being the sole focus of the King of Gotham, he thinks distantly, could become remarkably addicting.

“Alright.” Ed blinks, not quite sure he has heard him right. Oswald hums lightly under his breath in what Ed only hopes is approval. “I could teach you. At least, as long as you're on two legs not four. I don't have much experience with _that_.”

Ed blinks rapidly, heart still hammering against his rib cage. “Mr Penguin, that- that would be-”

“Just a moment.” Oswald’s eyes sweep across his face now as Ed’s teeth click closed. “I'm not doing anyone favours out of the goodness of my heart.”

Oswald’s lips twist a little as Ed feels something in his stomach sink. _Of course he would ask for something in return. Remember your game from before: give and take, push and pull, cat and mouse. What were you expecting? That he would treat you as a friend?_

“Say I ‘mentor’ you...what do I get in return?”

Oswald blinks up at him, eyes dark and dancing and Ed suddenly realises that Oswald has spent an entire day alone, is probably bored out of his mind right now and Ed is his only entertainment.

Well, he might as well put on a good show. 

He cocks his head to the side, part of him is tempted to suggest it would be repayment for Ed saving his life...But again, this may not be the best time to bring that up considering his initial reaction to that information. Eyes narrowed, Ed instead meets Oswald’s gaze head on, staring straight back as he thinks. 

“I imagine you're growing tired of those pyjamas.”

Oswald’s eyes widen ever so slightly, revealing the tiniest spark of surprise before it is smothered and Ed knows instantly he has said the right thing. “Carry on…”

“If you give me a lesson,” Ed cannot resist a small grin as he crosses his arms, “then I’ll buy you a suit.”

Oswald's response is immediate. “My choice of cut and make.”

“Fine. One lesson and I set the budget.” 

“One lesson, your budget and I choose the tailors.”

Ed’s smile stretches, splintering into a grin. “Deal.”

They share a moment of mutual joy, teeth flashing in the dim light before Oswald visibly smooths out his smile, as if suddenly remembering that he isn't supposed to be enjoying himself. He reopens his book, gaze snapping away from Ed’s. “Get another Mr Leonard and we’ll start.” 

“...Tonight?”

His eyes flick up to Ed’s, that deadly eyebrow raised once more. “I want my suit. Besides,” he shrugs, looking down once more, “I'm hungry.”

////

Ed is an incredibly organised person, fastidiously ensuring he plans ahead for every eventuality as best he can. That is why he has already marked down a handy-dandy list of Galavan supporters within a five block radius of his house (Galavan isn't the mayor for nothing). Next after Leonard is Rory, so once again he hunts in human form, bungling the middle-aged man into the back of his car in a darkened alley; it still feels just as unnatural as it did the last time but he cannot afford to make mistakes, not where Oswald is involved. He ensures he does not cut the subject this time. Once back at the apartment Oswald is eager to get going but Ed is insistent they do this properly. He first tests the subject’s blood, checking for any possible signs of disease, illness, infection, anything that could harm Oswald or cause his body to reject it a second time but Mr Rory appears fit as a fiddle.

It is 23:28 when they are ready to begin.

 _Second time lucky._ He clears his threat. “Mr Penguin? We’re ready.”

Adrenaline is still singing in his veins from the evening’s excursion and as Oswald looks up with dark eyes Ed can smell a similar excitement simmering in the other man as well. Finally. Entertainment. 

“So, you wanted a lesson?” Oswald rises slowly and begins to hobble towards the slowly awakening Mr Rory, seated in one of Ed’s remaining unbroken chairs. Oswald’s face is a mask, one which has been long perfected; only the darkness in his eyes and electrifying scent giving away his true emotions.

Ed nods, mouth feeling suddenly dry.

“Hmm.” Oswald hums thoughtfully as he begins to circle the man slowly, clockwise. “Look at Mr Rory. Really look at him.”

Ed licks his lips, turning his attention fully to the man-no, the _human_ in front of him. He sniffs, the stale scent of sweat and fear rising into the air. Mr Rory is beginning to struggle against the bonds.

“What is it we have that they don't?”

Ed grins.

“We have strength.”

The man in the chair muffles out something against the gag, the noises sounding suspiciously like _what the hell are you talking about_. Oswald gives a minute eye roll (which Ed _so_ catches) and, with a disconcerting speed, slams his fist across the man's face. Ed winces slightly at the painful snap sound his neck makes - he doesn't want Mr Rory expiring before Oswald can even begin his lesson - but after a moment his breathing continues, distracting muffled noises coming to an abrupt stop.

Ed licks his lips, heart beat quickening just a little more. “We have speed. Our instincts.”

“And what does that mean for us?”

Oswald is still circling them both, passing behind Ed as he thinks of his answer. “It means when we fight them, hunt them we have an advantage we can use.”

“True…” Oswald pops his tongue, his voice featherlight. “But it also means, we get _cocky_.”

And suddenly Ed is being yanked backwards, pulled _down_ and there is something cold against his throat, something sharp, deadly sharp pressing into his skin and _of course, idiot, idiot, first rule of a fight, never take your eyes off a threat._ Oswald is very close, his arm vice like across his chest, holding him there and Ed doesn't dare struggle, not with the knife so close, one stray move away from oblivion. Oswald’s lips hover just next to his ear.

“What are your instincts telling you now?” Oswald’s voice is dangerously low as he presses the knife a little further into his neck. Ed hisses, desperately trying to hold himself still as he fights the Beast’s distant roaring to tear Oswald's arm off. Any sudden movement, a fraction more pressure at just the wrong angle and Oswald is going to draw blood, and then the whole situation is going to deteriorate rather quickly… “You want to fight back, don't you? Hurt me like I'm about to hurt you. All of your instincts are _singing_ to tear me to pieces for this.”

Oswald’s lips graze the tip of his ear as he speaks and Ed feels something warm and syrupy trickle into the mix of pulsing fear and excitement. He swallows, feeling his Adam's apple bob against the knife edge and contemplates quite what it is his instincts are telling him right then.

“Yes,” he breathes as the smell of metal and Oswald up close begins to cloud his senses. He closes his eyes. 

“So why aren't you following them?” 

What if this is what Oswald had planned all along? What if this had been his true intention from the start, to lie to him, torture him, tempt him in the most agonising way so he drove him completely out of his mind…

“Because if I do you'll kill me.”

There is a pause and Ed doesn't dare breathe. The silence crushes their bodies together, so close. Too close.

“You're right.”

Oswald releases him with a sharp shove, knife pulled away without once breaking the skin. Ed stumbles forward, needing to catch himself on the bed frame, body thrumming with so much adrenaline he can feel his legs threatening to shake. Immediately he snaps his head to the side, muscles tensing in anticipation of a fight but Oswald is not even looking at him, focus entirely pinned on Mr Rory. The knife, which Ed recognises from his kitchen set, hangs limp at Oswald’s side.

“We have strength and speed and ‘instincts’, yes. But just because our bodies are different doesn't mean our minds are as well. They can still out-think us. If we get arrogant we forget that.”

Oswald steps forward, gaze locked on Mr Rory’s unconscious form. Something in his eyes looks distant, reminiscent of their first full conversation after waking, when that dull film had clouded them. Ed wonders just how present he is right in that moment.

“I got careless, Ed. Galavan found out what I was. He killed my mother because of my mistakes. My-” Oswald’s teeth click shut and he swallows, as if willing the words back in. Once again Ed watches as he takes an unnecessary breath. In. Out.

“If all of my experience has shown me anything it is this; arrogance leads to extinction. Stay on that path and it will lead to only destruction and pain.” 

There is something final in the way he says it, something almost blasé, as if ‘extinction’ would not bother him in the slightest.

“How's that for your lesson?”

Ed can't speak, the ricochet of emotions in his chest too much. He only nods, hoping Oswald will see it.

He does.

Once again, the sight of Oswald preparing to feast is breathtaking. He is far more calculating this time, a mental decision to kill made instead of an instinctive categorical command to survive. It is slower, lingering, almost delicate the way he tilts away Mr Rory’s head, brushing back the long, unkempt hair from his face. Whereas Mr Leonard died faceless, screams and wails muffled by a bag, Mr Rory’s end is exposed, defenceless and utterly silent. For some reason being able to see his face this time makes the whole thing more intimate. More real. Ed can't wrench his gaze away as Oswald raises the knife, such a small, tiny thing, holds it in the air for a moment…

And plunges. 

Just as soon as the knife enters the throat, precisely severing the carotid artery with almost a surgical precision, Oswald pulls it out. Immediately, his mouth is there to replace the blade, Ed just catching sight of Oswald’s teeth latching onto the skin around the wound as blood begins to burst. A wet, sucking noise and a low moan of pain at the back of Oswald’s throat are the only sounds in the dead flat. That and the strange, dull ringing in his eardrums.

Ed’s grip on the bedpost tightens. _Oh Oswald, you really have no idea what you're doing to me, do you?_

Once again, there is the urge to join the other man in the act of devouring, to lick the dribble of blood from the corner of his mouth with his own rough, canine tongue. Hunters beautifully conjoined in the art of death. But the silence of the moment, the stillness...it freezes Ed in place. For some reason that alone makes the whole thing feel almost obscene. Dirty. And with every second of Oswald’s muffled groans, every spasm his fingers make against Mr Rory’s bunched shirt the harder it becomes to ignore that sickly sweet warmth in his stomach pooling, spreading, _sinking_...

Eventually it does end. 23:36. Everything had happened so quickly. This time when Oswald meets his eyes, black pupils so wide Ed could fall into them, there is no anger. Instead, there is almost a shyness, embarrassment at being observed.

Ed finds himself smiling faintly as he approaches Oswald. He holds out a tissue.

Oswald pauses for a moment, dark eyes blinking up at Ed in a split-second of confusion, before taking the offered gift; he wipes his mouth roughly as he straightens up, a little shakily. Mr Rory’s head lolls back and Ed notes how unnaturally pale his skin appears in such short time. Two holes, each just a little bigger than a marble, burrow red and dark into his neck.

“I can clean up.” Ed is surprised to find his voice holding steady. No matter how hard he tries he cannot tear his eyes away from Mr Rory’s neck, barely resists holding up a hand to his own where the memory of steel against skin is so fresh he can almost feel the blade still there.

“You'll need this.” Something is pressed into his now empty hand as Oswald’s shoulder brushes his, the shorter man beginning to hobble away. 

“What-” Ed looks down at what appears to be a crumpled piece of paper, eyes scanning the scribbled digits and disjointed phrases. The answer to his unspoken question clicks barely a second after the word leaves his mouth.

Oswald’s voice is expressionless as he speaks. “They're my measurements.”

////

The day after their lesson Ed returns home from work to discover Oswald is no longer in the apartment. The instant this realisation hits a surge of panic roars through his chest, a cold dread darkening the edges of his already numb mind (yet another night of these damn nightmares has left his brain running empty on fumes). As his satchel drops to the floor a thousand thoughts bite into Ed’s skull because he knows, he _knows_ he shouldn't have left him alone, should have called in sick and stayed with him, last night’s ‘lesson’ should have been all the warning he needed and had he really been so stupid to think that the King of Gotham would ever want to stay with _him_ , no, no time for that, think, he must get him back, must try and track him follow his scent bring him home save him he's done it before but what if it's too late for that you idiot what if he’s gone what if he never wants to see you again what if he went after Galavan what if he's d-

“Ed?” 

Oswald’s voice is weak and muffled and he barely hears it over the maelstrom of his thoughts but oh, doesn't it send relief crashing through Ed’s chest like a tsunami. He is in the bathroom - of course. Idiot. Never jump to conclusions.

Ed smells it before he enters. Hurrying into the darkened room he finds Oswald curled up against the toilet, the white porcelain coated with blood. Oswald smiles weakly at him, teeth dirtied red.

“Sorry.”

Ed’s mind works too quickly as he clears up. Oswald has moved to the sofa, begrudgingly acquiescing to putting on Ed’s dressing gown. It’s green and fluffy and although the shorter man obstinately insists he doesn't feel warmth anymore, that it won't do any good, he still takes it. The robe is just slightly too big for Oswald, the sleeves pulled over the smaller man’s hands like they would a child. 

Under different circumstances Ed would find the sight endearing. Right now, he just feels sick.

Ed doesn't sit. Physical inactivity would be torture right at this moment. Every nerve feels electrified, energised by too much adrenaline while his mind screeches, a spinning top just barely under control. The silence stretches.

“This isn't normal.” 

Ed looks over sharply at Oswald, only to see him duck his head, almost embarrassed. Ashamed.

“I haven't been ill since I...changed. My body’s never struggled like this.”

Ed begins to pace back and forth, hands rubbing anxiously together. “Your body isn't keeping its food supply down, meaning there’s a problem in whatever process your new physiology uses to ingest it. I was so sure this time; Mr Rory’s blood was clean, and he hadn't been carrying anything harmful or insidious which can only mean-”

“It's not them. It's me.” Ed stops pacing and looks at Oswald. He swallows. “There's something wrong with me.” 

This shouldn't scare him so much. The prospect of losing a man he’s only just properly met. 

But it does.

“We can work this out.” Ed takes a short breath, pushing down that fear which threatens to overwhelm all else. “Just look at it like a puzzle. Something must have changed, some new variable introduced… You say you've never vomited up blood before?”

Oswald draws the dressing gown closer to him. “No. Then again I've never starved myself before. Maybe I'm just consuming too much, too quickly?"

Ed frowns. “If that were the case your body should have adjusted to the intake of blood the second time around. After all you were far more...more measured with Mr Rory. No, this- this is something else.”

The silence festers as Ed stops and thinks, Oswald staring blankly ahead.

“Hah!” 

Oswald jumps, looking up. “What?”

Ed steps forward and gracefully crouches down in front of Oswald, resting on the balls of his feet. “You were shot.”

“Yes,” Oswald answers, a tad irritably, “I've been shot before but as always it didn't hurt. Just got knocked back a bit, stumbled...I didn’t bleed.”

Ed steeples his fingers beneath his chin, staring intensely at a dark smudge on the sofa just to the right of Oswald’s ear. “It’s the only unquantified variable. It has to be it.”

Oswald’s hand immediately goes to his shoulder, the wound which Ed had cleaned and dressed when he'd first brought him to his apartment. He hasn't checked it since that night, hasn't dared to ask permission.

 _Well, things have changed._ Ed reaches out a hand. “May I?”

Oswald is hesitant, biting his lower lip in indecision...and then he begins to shrug off his right sleeve. Ed tries to curb the irrational spike of his heart rate the sight inspires, instead focusing on helping Oswald undo the bandage, see exactly what the wound looks like-

“Ah.” 

Long, spidery veins spread out greedily from the wound which looks ugly, a tiny black crater in Oswald’s otherwise marble skin. The pulsing green light catches them and they shimmer, dark rivulets of onyx which carve their jagged path outwards. If they reach out any further they look like they could eventually brush Oswald’s neck. For some reason Ed feels the powerful urge to trace them with his fingertips.

Ed exhales, long and slow. “It didn't look like that when I found you.” _And that only means one thing, Edward. Tick tock, tick tock..._

“It- it doesn't make any sense. It should have healed by now.” Oswald’s jaw is set, fingers clutching at the fringes of his shirt. 

Ed speaks in a quiet murmur, brain already tripping ahead of itself. “Whoever makes it, tells it not. Whoever takes it, knows it not. Whoever knows it, wants it not. What am I?”

The pheromones spreading from Oswald are intense, a cocktail of confusion and fear. “Riddles? _Now?_ What are you-” And then, a new scent appears. Rage.

“Poison,” Oswald spits, fingers twitching, “I've been poisoned.”

Ed feels a small surge of adrenaline, the same sensation he always gets when he’s just about to solve a puzzle for the first time. “You said Galavan had worked out what you were.”

“He must have done something, worked out a way to stop this from healing.” Oswald snarls, low and threatening. He is close enough that Ed feels the sound reverberate in his bones. “But it doesn't make sense - how could he know more about this- about my _condition_ than I do?”

“He couldn't. Unless…” Ed sucks in a breath through his teeth. “Unless he’s encountered someone like you before.”

Oswald’s eyes meet his, wide and furious. “Someone…”

“He's claimed that his family has a long history with Gotham. Who’s to say you’re it’s first dead man walking?”

Oswald blinks again and again in quick succession. Ed stands, the restless energy in his body so thick he cannot bear to stay still. Being immobile makes him feel far too passive. Far too useless.

“I'll get you some new dressing.”

“Don't bother.” Oswald voice sounds far away, as if Ed’s ears are muffled. “It's not about to heal anytime time soon. The wound isn't bleeding and it can hardly get any worse.”

Ed swivels on his heels and looks at Oswald, suddenly struck by how small he looks. He remembers the nightclub, where he had glimpsed in that brief instant all of the arrogance and assuredness of the Penguin stripped away, revealing someone who was achingly alone. He remembers the devastating hopelessness which had floated in Oswald’s eyes when he first awoke, seeing his longing for death plain and open. He remembers his low whimpers and sobs while Ed had carried him for a third time back to his bed, how his frozen skin had felt as delicate as paper under his touch.

_You are all that stands between this man and death. Do not forget that._

“Mr Penguin,” Ed says as he steps closer, hearing his own voice as if it was someone else's, “I promise to you, we can fix this. Galavan will not win.”

Oswald looks up at him sadly, a broken smile on his lips. “Oh Ed, it’s too late for that.” Ed’s gaze is unwillingly drawn once again to the cavity in his chest, eyes analysing its precise diameter and placement, attempting to map the bullets trajectory. It is then he realises with a flash of horror; the sniper who shot him had not hit their intended target. They must have been aiming for his heart. 

“Don't you see, friend?” The veins pulse, black and insipid. “Galavan won when he murdered my mother.”

////

It is with a sudden, penetrating shock of ice that Ed awakes, jolting out of the shifting shadows of his mind, heartbeat abnormal, too fast, too shallow. 

“Ed, what the hell-”

Ed’s vision focuses and he sees Oswald staring at him eyes wide, open book dropped at his feet, crumpled pages splayed open...Oh.

“Sorry, Mr Penguin, I- I didn't mean to startle you.”

Oswald shoots him an incredibly dirty glare as he stoops to recover his book from the clutches of Ed’s floor. _You really are doing an awful lot of reading Oswald..._

“Were you having nightmares again?”

The question doesn't quite register for a few seconds; Ed’s mind is not quite all there yet, sleep still hovering over his vision like drizzle. No, this dream had been nothing like the previous night's twisted creations (which apparently Oswald had noticed). Instead he had spent the last few hours in some strange limbo state, half-waking, half-sleeping, brain a live wire of thoughts and theories spinning and pin-wheeling out of control because he has to save Oswald, has to stop this sickness, has to help-

“No, not nightmares, just...” Ed wets his lips, suddenly desperate for water. “I- I think I know how to save you.” 

Something in Oswald's physicality suddenly sharpens. “How?” His voice is piercing.

“The bullet you were shot with - what happened to it?”

Oswald frowns, face scrunching in concentration. “I- I don't know. I can't remember what...I was so delirious for those few days I can barely remember anything.”

Ed swallows, throat like gravel. “There was no exit wound and when I cleaned you up I didn't have to remove the bullet.”

Oswald’s mouth hangs open for a moment, eyes large circles in the dark. “So, do you mean…”

“You must have removed it yourself.” Ed’s breaths are shallow. He cards a hand through his dishevelled hair. “That piece of metal is our best chance of finding what Galavan poisoned you with. If it's anywhere it should still be in the motorvan I found you in. I can go now-”

“ _Ed_.” Something in the way Oswald says his name makes him stop his movements to get out of the bed. “It's three a.m. You're not going anywhere.”

Ed glances at his bedside clock and, yep, Oswald is right. Of course.

“Fine, but tomorrow...tomorrow I'm going. I have to work this out, find some sort of antidote because-” 

“I know.” Oswald sounds so weary. He runs a hand across his face. “Just go back to sleep, Ed. I'll still be here in the morning.”

Ed wants to protest, wants to argue that actually he may not still be here, they don't know how fast this poison works and the most logical course of action is to do this right now while there's still time...but instead he finds himself lying back on the mattress, head hitting the pillow far too quickly. His mind is such a mess, too jumbled to make anything out properly and sleep calls to him like a lover he cannot refuse. _I will fix you Oswald. I promise, I am going to fix you._

“Goodnight, Ed.”

Oswald’s eyes, bright and shining in the darkness are the last things he sees before his own close and sleep drowns him.

///

The following day Ed does indeed return to the tiny motor home, however he only gets the chance during his rather rushed lunch break. Word in the GCPD seems to be focused on some sort of cultist monk organisation? Ed hasn't really been paying too much attention but whatever the hell is going on has left plenty of work for forensics, all carrying the Commissioner's red stamp of **‘urgent - address immediately’**. So, when Ed does finally pull up his car, twigs and dead leaves cracking under its tires, he does not dare to appreciate the earthy scents of the forest - time is pressing and he cannot afford to waste a single second. 

Entering through the van’s still open door, hanging precariously from its hinges Ed can't shake the feeling that the metallic walls are even more prison-like than when he first found the place. The smell of rust and rotting food is overpowering. He takes a moment, allowing the noxious odours to clog up his nasal canals before beginning the momentous task of sorting through them. And, yes, it takes a few moments but underneath the general decay of the place, faint, but present, there is that one unmistakable tang of iron.

Blood.

Oswald’s blood.

Rubber gloves firmly secured Ed shrugs off the distracting déjà vu which clings to this pace like a mist and strides to where he first found Oswald. It takes a while, longer than he would have liked but Ed is meticulous in his search and after what feels like an eternity he finds it. Beneath the leaves and dirt, a tiny piece of glinting metal.

The image of Oswald’s chest, throttled by black, repulsive veins burns behinds his eyes. Delicately he holds it up, pinched between thumb and forefinger. It catches the light, proud and taunting. How could something so small, so innocuous, so unassuming be the thing that tore a hole in the most powerful being in existence?

Shaking his head, he safely deposits the bullet in a plastic evidence wallet. _Now is not the time to get sentimental._ Back he runs to the GCPD, hands only slightly shaking as they grip the steering wheel. He only barely makes in time for the start of his shift, and the next pile of paperwork.

Before Ed was frightened. But now?

Now, Ed is frustrated.

He sits at his desk, head buried in the most unnecessary, stupid pile of paperwork. Stuck filling in ‘health and safety regulations’ (even the phrase sends a snarl of impatience through him) when he should be in the lab, researching, analysing this bullet which is burning into his lab coat pocket. Oswald, the Penguin, is at home, hurt and possibly _dying_ and every instant spent not searching for a cure to this poison in his system is another closer to his death.

Ed growls and something snaps but he doesn't care because Oswald is all that matters Oswald is _dying Oswald-_

“Ed?” 

His head is whipped to the side in a whiplash second, far too quick for human reflexes. Doctor Lee Thompkins is standing a few feet away, eyes wide in surprise.

“Doctor Thompkins. What can I help you with?” The words are clipped and harsh, even to his ears.

“Are...are you alright there, Ed?”

“Peachy.” Her concerned gaze flicks from his face to his hand. Ed glances down and sees his pencil snapped in half, spikes protruding from the split like a torture device. He gingerly places it on the table. “Oops.” 

“Are you sure?”

“Just a bit stressed I suppose. Work.” _Please leave, now, because I am dangerously close to breaking your neck._

“Right, well this is the autopsy on the dead monk. Jim wants you to run toxicology.”

 _Of course he does._ Ed’s gaze flitters across the file as she hands it to him. Under normal circumstances he would find it fascinating, the idea of inflicting that level, that severity of pain on oneself...but then all his thoughts shutter back to the flat, back to Oswald, back to _his_ pain-

“I'll get right on that.” The best he can manage is a thin smile as he drops the file on the desk, attention back to getting through this damn paperwork as soon as possible. 

Doctor Thompkins doesn't move.

Ed really wants to scream as the strong, heady scent of the Doctor’s uncertainty and nervousness slaps him in the face. 

“Was there something else?” The words are strained, directed at the desk.

“Sorry, it's just...have you heard from Kristen lately?”

Ed is very grateful at that moment he isn't looking at her because he knows something in his eyes would have given him away. He feels the muscles in his neck strain for a moment, tensing up painfully before he forces them to relax.

Thankfully Doctor Thompkins starts talking again before he has the time to think of something to say.

“It's just...I don't want to sound indelicate but Kristen hasn't shown up to work in ages and I'm- I'm starting to get a little worried. She called in to say she was sick-”

“As it happens, she’s not sick.” The decision is made, blinding fast. Lee needs to leave, _now_ , but Ed also needs her to believe him, shirk off any suspicion. Remembering that eye contact is generally perceived to indicate honesty Ed looks up, turning in his chair to face the woman.

“Kristen lied. Lied to us all.” The Doctor frowns, disbelief clouding her pupils but Ed continues. “I just found out that she left town - with Officer Doughtery.”

He can smell the sharp surprise on her expelled breath. _C’mon Doctor, just buy into it already._ “Kristen left with Officer Doughtery?”

“Mhmm.” Every is screaming inside, everything so taut that it is going to stretch and snap and second and _just leave already go run-_

“But he was abusive.”

Ed barks out a shot of laughter, the sound harsh in his ears which are already ringing. “ _Love.”_

“I...Wow. I'm a little shocked.”

_Yes, that is clearly obvious from your facial expression, body language and secretion of pheromones there is no need to state the obvious, only the need to accept and leave and never dare to interrupt me again you pathetic creature you have no idea how quickly I could kill you how many ways I could hurt you and bite you and tear you-_

**‘THEY TOLD ME YOU WERE NO GOOD!’**

The sound of his ringtone actually makes Ed jump. He glares at the piece of technology, immediately deducing the only person who would be ringing him right at that moment. 

“Do you need to get that?” 

Ed’s head whips back up to the Doctor and it is surely by some sort of divine intervention that he doesn't strangle her right then and there.

“No, I don't think so.”

**‘I KNOW YOU’LL TAKE CARE OF ALL MY NEEDS- ’**

His phone continues vibrating and the Doctor opens her mouth and Ed is snapping, fracturing into a thousand pieces at how angry furious helpless he is and _ask one more question, go on, just do it, push me and it will be your fault when I tear your organs from your pathetic sack of a body your fault when you make me rend your bones from your flesh your fault when even Jim doesn't recognise you at the end of it_

And then, Ed starts to sob. 

It is utterly ridiculous and insane and he wonders why he didn't just do this to start with because of _course_ the doctor would fall for it, the most obvious appeal to those oh so valued maternal instincts and deep rooted empathy. Lee looks at him with so much pity it chafes, pats him on the arm and promises that ‘it will be alright’. _Oh yes I'm quite sure I must be devastated, Doctor Thompkins, quite sure._

He stops the farce the moment he knows she is out of earshot.

**‘YOU’RE THE SAME KIND OF BAD AS ME.’**

With excessive force he snaps open the phone. “Yes?” he hisses.

“Your shower is broken again.”

It is in that moment that Ed realises just how close he is to being forced into transforming on the spot out of pure frustration.

“You better not have used all the wat- Oh, wait. Never mind. Fixed it.”

The line clicks dead.

Ed has to spend a long time just breathing because the cloud of anger throbbing around his head is starting to clog up his airways.

Ed snaps his third pencil, this one mechanical by the time he finally begins work on the bullet. It sits in the lab, defiant and obnoxious as Ed begins the first of several rudimentary tests, breathing through his nose to quell the pounding anger and terror which has become synonymous with his heartbeat… and almost insultingly quickly Ed realises exactly what has poisoned Oswald.

“Of course.”

The world is a wash of white noise as he repackages the bullet. More tests aren't necessary. He should have seen this coming, even an idiot in his position could have guessed it is so _obvious_ , so _textbook_ and had he really been that blind? The discovery only throws up more questions, the most important being - how does he fix Oswald?

The moment he steps through the doors of the lab the ringing in his ears is shattered. Heart swooping in his chest he reaches out a hand to catch himself on the wall as barely fifteen feet from him a police officer’s dog is barking, aggressive snarls and huge cacophonous roars from its chest, so loud and sudden that Ed nearly drops the evidence packet he is carrying.

“Woah boy, woah! Calm down!” A nearby officer, his trainer most likely, yanks back on his lead. It does not calm down.

Ed lets out a very low growl, ensuring only the dog can hear it. The creature only barks all the more. 

Another side effect of his new abilities. Dogs don't particularly like him. Typical.

“Sorry ‘bout that. He’s been pretty good so far.” The officer chuckles. “You got any illegal substances on you Nygma?”

Ed is about to open his mouth to sneer, nerves frayed so much that he cannot keep up this facade anymore when suddenly-

_Eureka._

He knows how save Oswald.

////

“Long day?”

Ed slides the door closed behind him, turning to see Oswald once more in his green dressing gown, sitting on the sofa, feet up, book in hand. Most noticeable however is, positioned atop the King of Gotham’s head, a beautifully constructed towel headdress.

Ed blinks, utter disbelief hitting him like a bucket of frozen water. The stray mental image of Oswald undergoing a mud-facial and manicure rises in his thoughts, unbidden. It is the first time he has been tempted to smile all day.

He shakes his head, crossing the room to the desk. “I wondered how you got your hair to look so soft.” _And feel it._

“Ow!” Ed flinches as something whacks him in the back of the head. He stares at the floor, jaw slightly open.

“...Did you just throw a slipper at me?”

“Yes.” Oswald licks his finger before turning the page, not once looking up. “If you could bring it back that would be wonderful.”

Ed blinks, a dangerous twitch to his lips threatening to bloom into a full-blown grin. He bends to retrieve the slipper.

“Maybe Princess of Gotham would have been a better title,” he mutters under his breath.

This time as he rises the second slipper hits him full in the face, the dull thunk sparking in his eardrums. 

“Improved hearing!” Oswald sing-songs, eyes still fixed on the page, “You know, for a man of your intellect, you can be incredibly slow.”

Ed has to take a moment to stare incredulously at the Penguin. “I suppose you’d like me to retrieve that slipper as well?”

“If you would be so kind, _friend.”_

Ed scoffs, once again on the back-foot. He finds it amazing the speed at which Oswald can completely transform his mood, all of the anger of the day evaporating like mist the moment he’d heard his voice.

He considers for a moment disobeying, part of him wanting to see just how far he can push the Penguin and his luck, but then he remembers the sensation of hands around his throat, sharp teeth tearing into soft flesh, speed lightning quick he might have missed it…

Perhaps not. For all of this casual, almost playful banter there is still a tension between the two. _Every victim of the Penguin has made the fatal error of underestimating him. Do not make that same mistake._

“Very well, Your Majesty.” The final jab slips out before he can stop it. Oswald hums as Ed approaches. 

“I could kill you in less than three seconds.” 

Ed pauses on the other side of the coffee table, eyes settling on Oswald’s pale, bare feet. He notices for the first time that the very tips of his toes are almost...blue. Interesting.

“Did you know wolves can consume up to nine kilograms in a single sitting?” Ed asks as he slides the first slipper onto the Penguin’s right foot.

“I can't say that I did…” He says lightly, turning another page. “I suppose you know plenty of other wolf-facts.”

Ed’s smile brightens. “You betcha. Did you want to hear them?”

“Not particularly-”

“Wolves are incredibly interesting creatures.” Ed counters happily as he places the second slipper on Oswald’s foot. Because he is looking down he does not catch the Penguin’s astronomically large eye-roll. “First off, they normally mate in the winter - not too unusual, right? But then you take into account the fact that they normally mate for life.”

“Fascinating.” 

“Moreover, wolves are among the most feared creatures by humans. Did you know there are cases of wolves having been put on trial and then burnt at the stake? Goes to show that The Big Bad Wolf really didn't come from nowhere.”

“Ed, if you don't stop talking I'm going to need to hit you with something harder than just a soft, plushy slipper.”

Ed snorts. “A fine way to treat the man who saved your life.”

“Something I am constantly endeavouring to forget.” Finally Oswald meets his gaze and Ed’s smile trickles away, pathetic. _Do not forget where we stand._

Ed coughs, straightening up to take a seat next to Oswald on the sofa. “That's, uh, actually what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Oswald raises an eyebrow and places the book on the coffee table. Ed takes that as a sign to continue.

“I think I've found the solution to your little blood problem.”

Oswald sighs and Ed takes a moment to wonder if he’d actually wanted him to find an antidote. “Right well, this isn't a conversation I'm having with this thing on my head.”

Ed stares transfixed as the towel is removed and, rather gracefully, Oswald’s hair falls out in a ruffle of black which really resemble feathers far too closely to be normal. For some reason Ed finds his mouth suddenly dry, tongue a weight of iron in a dry bank of sand. His fingers itch.

“Ed?” 

Said man coughs, forcing his focus back on his roommate's eyes (although that probably wasn't the best idea either). 

“I went back to the caravan where you...where I found you. By some miracle the bullet was still there and I was able to do some analysis back at the precinct.”

“And?” Oswald blinks, eyelashes fluttering ever so slightly. “What is it?”

Ed inhales slowly, stomach feeling incredibly light. _Here goes nothing._

“The bullet was silver.” 

Wordless surprise flashes in Oswald’s eyes as his gaze darts down to the crook of Ed’s arm. “Silver? So you and I…”

“It would appear that, for some reason, both of our physiologies do not react well to silver’s chemical structure.” _I told you we were the same, didn't I? I just hadn't realised how similar._ He waits but Oswald seems lost in thought, gaze locked on the floor.

“There are legends of silver being used on vampiric creatures as well as lycanthropes. And I suppose all myth has a root in some fact.” 

Still Oswald does not reply. Ed swallows thickly. “Galavan must have known that was a weakness because it wasn't just a silver bullet, it was laced with some sort of silver compound. That's what must have entered your bloodstream, acting as a toxin, preventing you from properly processing blood.”

The silence stretches on and Ed watches thoughts flicker by behind Oswald’s eyes. He doesn't look perturbed or confused or worried...or rather, he looks all of them at once. Not for the first time Ed sorely wishes that his abilities were not limited to shedding his own skin, but that he could also crawl inside of other’s, peel back the layers and discover exactly what is bubbling beneath the surface.

“So, what do we do now?” Oswald’s voice is featherlight, gentle. It catches Ed entirely off guard.

“For obvious reasons this is a bit beyond my realm of experience but...” Ed steels himself to say the words he has been practising the whole drive home. “I think you need someone's blood which the silver compound won't expel. Moreover, you need blood that has been exposed to the toxin that can break it down and remove it entirely. You need-”

“You.” Oswald’s flash to Ed’s and those spinning colours are back, storm clouds so beautiful he can feel the electricity crackle between them. “Your blood.”

“Bingo.” His throat is so dry every breath scrapes his windpipe. “Remember when you first woke and I asked whether you believe in fate? Well, what are the chances the man that found you is also the only person in Gotham who could save you?” The words leave his lips lamely, dying away in the charged air around them. 

Oswald’s gaze is very sharp as he looks at him. “You're willing to let me...drink from you?”

“I've already gone so far to make sure you live, what's one step more?” Ed laughs, attempting to dispel some of the anxiety which has its claws around his heart. It doesn't work. “And of course, I'm hoping you'll stop before you kill me.”

Oswald’s eyes shine with pain, deep, fathomless. “I can't promise that Ed. I've never drunk from someone and stopped. I- I don't know if it's even possible-”

“Don’t worry, I can stop you.” Oswald blinks, forehead creasing with lines of confusion. “Remember, you aren't the only one with superhuman strength. If I feel like you’re about to kill me I’ll just...shove you off.”

Oswald does not look particularly convinced. “How do you know this will even work?” 

Ed swallows as something akin to genuine pain seizes in his chest. “I don't. But it’s your best chance. Probably your only chance.”

“Ed,” Oswald murmurs, eyes are wide as they search his, “are you sure?”

“Yes.” _Liar._

Oh, Ed is entirely sure about saving Oswald’s life. If today has shown him anything it is that the mere suggestion of the Penguin’s existence being cut short can make him lose all rationality. But to allow Oswald to actually feed from him? Possibly kill him? Surrender his own lifeblood...the Beast is pacing at the idea. For a hunter to give in like that, to become the prey seems fundamentally _wrong_. Perhaps it will be as much of a battle for Oswald to stop himself from killing Ed as it will be for Ed to stop himself from attacking the man he seeks to save.

But Oswald must not die. Of that he is deadly certain. So Ed seals his lips, makes his choice and waits for Oswald to do the same. 

Ed watches those eyes flicker, the other man's thoughts and emotions swimming by so quickly Ed cannot even attempt to decipher them, and as the seconds tick by he realises that Oswald is not deciding whether he should risk killing Ed. That is not the choice he is agonising over. No, Oswald is struggling instead to decide whether he actually wants to try to save himself. Ed watches as he closes his eyes, jaw clenching and every fibre of Ed’s being tenses with him as he pitifully prays he has done enough, given Oswald the hope he needs to choose against death. _Come on Oswald, not after I've done so much, not after you've barely given me a taste of this world, please..._

Oswald opens his eyes. 

Oswald opens his eyes and Ed wants to cry because finally, finally there is _fire_ burning in those pupils. There is determination. Drive.

There is life.

“I will make Galavan _scream_ for what he's done to me.” It is only a whisper and yet Ed still feels something in his chest splinter. _Of course Oswald isn't coming back to life for you._

Ed grits his teeth. _No. The reason doesn't matter. As long as Oswald survives. That will be enough._

“He will deserve far worse.”

From the few rare times he has had the honour of watching Oswald drink it has always been carnivorous, brutal. Carnality incarnate. Yet, bringing his legs up beneath him on the sofa he kneels in front of Ed so gently, the fingers which have snapped necks with minimalistic effort carefully tilting his own to one side. Memories of Mr Leonard and Mr Rory flicker in his mind’s eye and Ed has half a moment to doubt whether he has made the right decision. 

Yet, despite the sudden burst of fear Ed is surprised to realise that he’s excited. His heart beats faster in anticipation and he can pinpoint the exact moment Oswald hears it. Those eyes, full with so many emotions, darken. Ed can barely breathe as he watches his pupils dilate ever so slightly, twisting that concern and determination into something hungry, predatory. 

_He must be so thirsty._

Their eyes break contact, Oswald's gaze sliding to his neck. He licks his lips. Ed's body is practically shaking with adrenaline, battling the instincts inside him; one side screaming to get away, the other to tear off the head of this would-be hunter but somehow he holds himself still. Oswald hovers over his pulse point and Ed wonders whether he will change his mind and draw back. A moment passes.

Then, Oswald bites. 

Ed instinctively tenses at the contact; sharp, cold teeth on soft, warm skin. It takes a moment for the sensation of piercing pain to register, the movement was so sudden. Ed had expected it to burn, to feel tendon and nerve and rivulet of skin be agonisingly ripped apart - and it does. For a moment. And then, it is as if the pain, so intense, so pure steps over a line from agony to something else. He opens his mouth with the intention to scream yet all that escapes is a hot hiss of air because this feels _good. So. **Good.**_

It is as if every single cell of Ed’s body is focused singularly on Oswald with the kind of intensity he had thought limited to his mind alone. Paradoxically his skin feels both hot and cold, burning and freezing at the same time and beneath it there is this odd rushing, surging sensation. No, it's more than that. It’s like waves, swelling, roaring up and he is powerless in their wake, swept along and totally lost in this feeling which goes so beyond rage or pain or lust. He is expanding, flying outside of himself, distant from it all as he is torn in two, disassembled only to be remade, joining with another, the edges blurring as two become _one._

This can’t be right, having your life energy sucked forcibly from your body shouldn’t feel this pleasurable and intoxicating and addicting but it does and Ed wants, needs more of this. More of Oswald.

Inadvertently he arches up into the touch, into the white-hot point of contact on his neck just to get more of this feeling. Oswald makes a muffled noise against his neck and it sounds like a moan, long fingers fisting into his hair. There are nails, scraping across his scalp, punishing and Ed loves it. He wants to return in kind, to bite back and give Oswald this sweet pleasure too but there is no strength in his arms, no energy to do anything. 

He is smiling as his eyelids flutter closed. Surely nothing in the world can compare to this, nothing else could feel so right; being completed, made whole when he didn't know he was broken. Oswald needs to finish it. _Take it all. Have everything Oswald. It's yours. All yours._

And then, it stops.

It takes a monumental effort to open his eyes but Ed does, needs to know why Oswald has pulled back, why he hasn't finished it. Oswald's eyes stare back at him, wide with panic and worry and shame - but something else is buried beneath those blown pupils. Satisfaction. He hadn't wanted to stop either.

“Ed, that was almost- I could have… You said you would stop me.” He sounds out of breath. But that doesn't make sense, Oswald doesn't breathe. Ed’s vision slips downward, only to see Oswald’s mouth smudged with red. _You wear my blood like lipstick._

Ed sighs, letting himself loosen into Oswald’s grip on his shoulders. He is still smiling. “Didn’t want to.”

Oswald’s eyes widen. “What?” He sounds shocked, disbelieving. _Why? Doesn’t he understand how good that felt?_

“Didn’t want to stop you...Felt good.” Ed’s words are slurred and his eyelids flutter for a moment. He feels drunk on this feeling, waves of heat coursing through his veins, the left side of his neck aching and numb. With each heartbeat it pulses, white stars flashing in his vision.

“I almost killed you,” he whispers, voice rough and trembling. _No, no, don’t be sad, Oswald, don’t you see that this is incredible, beautiful, **right.**_

“I would have let you.” The words are expelled in a single rush of air and the world blurs for a moment. Then Oswald’s face swims back into focus. His smile widens. _There you are._

“Ed…” _My name sounds so good in your voice. I want you to say it again and again and again…_

Ed giggles, feels himself flop forwards slightly. “I’m...I’m inside you.” Oswald lets out a tiny choked noise. Ed giggles again, head but a breath away from Oswald. “Isn’t that neat? Right now, I’m _inside you_. Pulsing. Pumping. Ba-dum. Ba-dum.”

With a lazy finger Ed taps out his heart beat on Oswald’s chest. Oswald’s mouth is hanging open, shock and disbelief clear but there is something more, something painful and desperate and hungry. His eyes dart to Ed’s lips.

Ed closes the small space between them so their foreheads are touching, Oswald’s scent and his own mixing in such a beautiful way. The man’s skin feels warm to the touch. Feverish.

“I would have let you take it all,” he breathes. _I was made for you Oswald. And you were made for me. It's all yours, all yours._

Oswald’s grip on his shoulders is too tight, fingers burrowing bruises into his skin but Ed doesn’t care, can barely feel it. The world has darkened, his vision tunneled so there is only Oswald and those storm-filled eyes.

“All yours.”

He smiles as the blackness in Oswald’s eyes swallows him whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, plot! Domestic fluff! Angst! It's all going down. Please excuse my treatment of any science/medical facts and just suspend your disbelief a little (they're supernatural beings, things work a bit differently for them). Ed’s new ring tone is ‘Bad As Me’ by Tom Waits who I feel is old enough to be able to legitimately fit into the wibbly wobbly time limbo that Gotham seems stuck in.
> 
> Let me know what you're thinking of it so far! Comments, however short, really make all the difference. While this has definitely been my favourite chapter to write, I have a feeling you guys will like the next one…


	6. burn with me tonight

_So come on_  
_I'll take you on, take you on_  
_I ache for love, ache for us_  
_Why don't you come_  
_Don't you come a little closer_  
_So come on now_  
_Strike the match, strike the match now_  
_We're a perfect match, perfect somehow_  
_We were meant for one another_  
_Come a little closer_  
**_Fire Meet Gasoline - Sia_ **

 

_Oswald is running._

_Just like before. He runs and runs with fear a cacophony inside his skull. The darkness is everywhere, all consuming in its suffocating vastness. Something nearby howls._

_Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum._

_His heart still beats, legs still move, panic still chokes him. It is all the same, but not. There is something different._

_“Oswald! Oswald! Do not leave me!”_

_His mother calls out to him again. Guilt still claws into his back but once again he carries on running, an old video stuttering on repeat. Something has changed and it is so very important. Oswald needs to remember…_

_Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum._

_The ground shifts beneath him like sand in an hourglass. Oswald can barely keep his balance. He is just about to fall, like he did before. His legs are tired and aching and he doesn't even know why he is running, can't remember the reason for this terror. What's the point if he doesn't know why?_

_A howl splits through the air._

_And then, finally, Oswald remembers._

_He isn't being chased. He isn't running to escape. There is no predator poised to kill him. No. He’s looking for something. Someone. A creature, howling in pain. It needs him. If he doesn't get there in time it will be hurt, tortured, killed. He has to save it._

_So Oswald runs._

_Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum._

_After an eternity, after its howls of pain and agony loop infinitely, an endless cycle of torture screeching in his eardrums, he finds it. A man hangs limply, strung up with his arms outstretched. Great chains cuff his limbs to the darkness, the only things supporting his body weight. He is beaten bloody, lacerated so thoroughly that his pale patches flesh are only intermittent ragged outcroppings of rock in a sea of red._

_Oswald marvels that he has the strength to howl. These ruptured screams seem too constrained for this enormity of pain, surely._

_“Help me.”_

_The man’s eyes meet his and immediately Oswald recognises them. He knows he has seen those dark and desperate pits before, knows instinctively that they are important. Why can't he remember?_

_“Please.”_

_Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum._

_Oswald runs to his side and pulls the silver chains apart. The metal stings his skin and he feels his nails rip and tear, feels his skin blister but he doesn't care, he has to save this man. He doesn't know why. He doesn't even know his name. But he is certain that his own life is worth nothing compared his._

_“They took my heart.”_

_The chains crumble in his grip like rubble and the man falls, collapsing on top of Oswald, pinning him beneath his broken form. Oswald yells out as the body of the man crushes him, air supply and windpipe brutally cut off for one terrifying moment._

_Above, the man blinks at him, but he is no longer a man. It is a wolf. Had it been a wolf all along, the darkness deceiving Oswald’s eyes? Or had the fall somehow shifted its form? He does not know. He does not particularly care._

_It stares down at him with hungry eyes._

_Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum._

_“They took my heart. I need a heart.”_

_The wolf opens its jaws and a man's voice chimes out, sing song. It is not desperate or in pain, merely matter of fact. Oswald cannot breathe._

_The wolf looks down, eyes narrowed in contemplation. Oswald stares as those piercing eyes change colour - black to blue to red to purple to green. The result is hypnotic. Oswald lets himself be pulled into their cyclical colours, charmed by their effervescent beauty and forgets that the wolf is killing him._

_Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum._

_The wolf lowers its head. Without breaking eye contact it begins to lick. In just a few thrusts of its long, pink tongue Oswald’s clothes begin to dissolve like acid, the sharp sound of hissing filling the air like steam, like snakes. It licks and licks at his chest and his skin is peeling, hot bristles scratching away the flesh like it is only a coating of dust._

_It is agony._

_Finally, finally it stops. Timidly Oswald opens his eyes and looks down his body. The wolf sits there, weight heavy and oppressive on his hips, fur so dark it is barely distinguishable from the darkness which surrounds them. Beneath it lies Oswald’s exposed rib cage, fleshly tendrils clinging pitifully to the bone. He still cannot breathe._

_The blackness settles, suddenly silent._

_Where the creature’s front paw should be there is instead an outstretched human forearm and hand, clutching something._

_“I need a heart.”_

_It holds it out like a gift. Bloody and tiny and precious._

_“May I have yours?”_

 

/////

 

Oswald stands by the window, sounds and smells of Gotham seeping in through the open pane. Darkness hovers outside like a palpable force, the neon flickering lights casting strange shadows on the floor and walls. Oswald’s whole body is tense- no, not tense. Energised. Too much energy, like electricity, sparks just beneath his skin where foreign blood thaws frozen arteries. He is shaking.

“Fuck,” he whispers. The obscenity is loosed from his lips without his permission yet Oswald cannot think of any other word that accurately expresses his sentiments at this situation. 

It had all gone so wrong.

All Oswald had wanted to do was die. Had that really been too much to ask? He’d been so close to that blissful end, he knows it, but then it had all been viciously snatched away from him as his world was hurled into the whirlwind of Edward Nygma. The moment he’d opened his eyes in this damn flat Ed had been under his skin, talking to him, killing for him, _caring_ for him.

What had happened to manipulation? Oh yeah, Ed had turned into a fucking _wolf_ and things had gone downhill pretty quickly from there.

He’d been so earnest. Those eyes which, at the start Oswald had thought looked distorted, wrong in some indescribable way, had instead begun to shine with all of this excitement and fear and passion, all to help _him_. To save _him_. Oswald had learned his lesson many times over of the deceiving nature of appearances yet Ed seemed, if nothing else, brutally honest. 

_I've already gone so far to make sure you live, what's one step more?_

Oswald had decided to indulge him, a decision which had somehow become a habit in recent days. After all, if drinking from Ed didn't work, what was he losing? Oswald didn't really want his life and he hadn't known Ed nearly long enough to grieve if he did end up killing him. At least, that what was what he’d told himself.

Unfortunately Ed seemed determined to prove Oswald wrong.

By some miracle Ed hadn't died. ‘I can stop you whenever I want’ his arse - the moment Oswald's mouth had connected with Ed’s neck, his teeth sinking into the other's soft flesh as easily as any knife, he’d gone completely pliant. A feast normally involved endless, hideous screaming and pleading and feeble attempts to fight back whereas Ed…

Well, for all Oswald has learned from a week in the man's company it is this: Ed is anything but normal.

Edward Nygma, ever the oddity, had _enjoyed_ it, moaning like it was pleasurable and not a murdering, pushing back into Oswald instead of fighting, screaming, begging to be released. That alone Oswald could have dealt with, who knows what Ed got a kick out of - what had been far more worrying was Oswald’s experience of it too. 

Simply, it had been beautiful. So beautiful. So totally and utterly beautiful and delicious and satisfying in ways Oswald had thought he could no longer experience.

That blood, _Ed’s_ blood, the heady aphrodisiac of copper and metal mixed with something stronger, so much more potent than anything he'd ever tasted before… There had been nothing remotely human about it, nothing that sang with the death cry of a soul in agony as he’d torn it from Ed’s veins. No; it was bestial, animal, soulless. It had tasted of power and fire and for one shining, glorious moment Oswald had been sated, full, _alive_ for the first time in over a year.

It had shocked him so much he'd pulled back, the insurmountable sensation of peace, contentment so overwhelming. It had only been then, as reality began to flutter back into his vision, that Oswald had realised he'd been about to kill him.

_I would have let you._

Oswald closes his eyes, grip tightening around the window ledge as Ed’s newly settling blood pools in his stomach, dark and dangerous and oh so good.

_I would have let you take it all._

Oswald groans as the remembered sight of Ed is there to greet him in the dark. Hair mussed, eyes dark and wide, expression so open and unguarded. He'd looked like he was drugged, like he was overdosed on pleasure and Oswald was the only thing in the world that remotely mattered. 

_All yours._

Oswald would be lying if he said the only intoxicating thing about Ed is his lifeblood. His eyes snap open and are instantly on the sleeping shape, crumpled across the room on the sofa like a rag doll. Oswald can hear him breathing, the shallow noises loud and resonant in his skull. He swallows. Even though he is as far from the man as is possible in this apartment the scent of Ed is just as present, as if he is right next to him. Oswald’s grip tightens on the window-ledge even further.

How is he supposed to go back to the way things had been before?

No. No, he can't afford to think like that. Those kind of thoughts reek of things like permanence and reliance and _need_. Dying has shown Oswald very clearly that nothing in the world is lasting or permanent, and if there is anything he needs this stagnant city has no qualms in taking it away from him.

Edward Nygma is...undeniably a problem. But Oswald has been in so many impossible situations, has had to overcome so much. Ed is nothing new.

 _But you want him,_ a traitorous voice sing songs in his head. _That makes him new. And that makes him dangerous._

“Penguin...”

At a painful speed Oswald’s head snaps upwards, jaw clenching at the unexpected sound. A few uneasy moments pass in the darkness of the room as Ed’s form lies unmoving on the sofa.

“...Ed?” 

The silence gets stuck in Oswald’s throat as he waits desperately for a reply.

“Mr Penguin…”

 _He’s still asleep._ Oswald forces himself to release his grip on the ledge as this realisation slots into place. Ed is still unconscious, just caught in dreams, murmuring nonsense, nothing.

“Oswald…”

Ed moans out something intelligible, voice breathy, barely there and Oswald tries so hard to distance himself from it all, he really does...but something in Ed’s voice is mingling with the new blood in his system as it rushes to his cheeks, down the back of his neck, that word playing over and over and over in his head. 

It feels important for some reason. Incredibly important. Why is that? Why should Ed murmuring his name while asleep be-

Oh. That's why.

It's the first time Ed has ever said his name. His real name.

“Oswald...Oswald _please…”_

He doesn't think anyone’s ever said his name like that. So vulnerable, so broken, so full of need that it takes every inch of Oswald’s battered self-control not to stalk closer, find Ed’s skin with his lips and continue exactly where he left off.

_Didn't want to stop you...Felt good..._

With Ed’s lifeblood singing beneath his skin the sounds and smells of the apartment assault Oswald’s senses like salt on a wound. He has never experienced anything like this after a hunt, never before has he felt so focused, so _present_ in his own body. It is as if his senses are expanding, heightening and as his vision locks onto Ed’s body Oswald can feel...something.

It is just like Gotham’s irresistible hold over him, that siren song he had felt every waking moment when he'd tried to run, calling, pulling, _tugging_. It is so real and potent and forceful Oswald could swears he can feel it as a real, physical connection, a chord reaching out between the two men, straddling the darkness, beckoning Oswald, whispering for him to come closer, just a little closer... 

_All yours._

_No_. Oswald pulls himself back, hands gripping the window ledge with a death grip. He refuses, resists whatever this is. He will not succumb. He will not kill Ed. _No._

It continues on like this for far, far too long. Perhaps just over an hour of Oswald forcibly holding himself back, fingers burrowing indentations into the wood, his right leg stiff and aching from the rigidness of his position. He spends the time split between tasks, one moment spent forcibly keeping himself immobile, and then the next wondering if each shallow breath Ed takes is about to be his last, that the blood loss will have been too much. All the while the blood in his body sings to move forward.

In the shifting shadows Oswald can almost see this odd chain spiralling out from him, golden and glittering as it wraps around Ed. But then he blinks and the shadows swallow it up. Maybe he is really going crazy.

Gradually Ed’s breathing seems to lose its breathy and muted quality from before, each inhalation growing deeper. Relief comes crashing through Oswald’s self-imposed paralysis as the faint hope that Ed will survive this, will survive _him_ makes this siren call easier to resist. 

Eventually Oswald trusts himself to leave his perch without flying at Ed’s unconscious form, fangs first. Slowly he limps towards the sofa, paranoia cold in his chest that Ed is actually dead and he has been imagining the sound of his breathing.

But, no. Ed’s chest is definitely rising and falling, albeit not as deeply or slowly as it probably should. However, he is definitely not dead. Almost instantly Oswald’s gaze finds his neck, the two twin wounds looking...smaller than Oswald had expected. He does note however that Ed’s skin is abnormally pale, verging on meeting his own skin colour.

Half-through his assessment Oswald’s gaze travels up his face, and meets two very open eyes. 

_“Ed,”_ he hisses, stomach lurching, “I thought you were asleep.”

Ed blinks, eyes covered in a disconcerting mist as he seems to almost look through Oswald. “What...”

His voice is rough, as if it hasn't been used in days. His mouth closes, opens and closes again as if he is unsure of what he is attempting to ask. After a few moments of this Oswald decides to speak first. 

“How are you feeling?”

Ed’s features are muddled by confusion as he begins to struggle upwards, attempting to sit up. His glasses sit askew on the end of his nose but Ed makes no move to right them.

“I don't...wow, head rush.” He winces as he looks up, pupils dilating once they meet Oswald’s. “What…what happened?”

A prickle of panic begins to creep into Oswald’s chest. _Please, please don't say that he’s forgotten._

“You let me drink from you. And then you passed out. Don't you remember?”

Ed’s eyes glaze over slightly, gaze slipping away as he looks just beyond Oswald’s left ear. “No, I- I do. It's just...”

 _“Ed.”_ Slowly his eyes slink back to meet Oswald's. Slow responses. Never a good sign. “Are you… Do you need medical attention?”

Ed inhales slowly and Oswald notices beads of sweat beginning to gather at his hairline. “Hypovolemic shock.”

“What?”

“I'm… I'm in hypovolemic shock. Loss of more than twenty per-” Ed swallows as the word catches gruffly in his throat, “percent of blood.” 

Now the panic in Oswald’s chest is growing sharper with every lethargic word the other manages to force out. “How do you treat it?”

Ed blinks again and this is really starting to scare Oswald because he has never seen Ed look so vacant before. That brilliant mind which normally sparks fireworks behind his irises seems unnervingly empty, his eyes blank and dull.

“You've got something…” Ed reaches up a limp hand to his lips. “Just here.”

Lighting quick Oswald reaches up, rubbing at his own mouth as his stomach squirms in sudden self-consciousness. Some blood must have stained the skin. Ed’s blood. The realisation sends a torrent of thoughts spiralling through his mind, all black, sharp daggers because _this is all your fault Oswald, Ed may die because of you and what will be the point of it all? You don't even want to live. Is your pathetic little existence really worth his life?_

“Ed. I need you to think.” Oswald takes a step closer, chest uncomfortably tight. “Tell me how I can help you.”

 _“Don't_ call an ambulance.” Despite his erratic breathing Ed chuckles a bit before wincing, the sound dark and gruff. “No doctors. No tests.”

Oswald nods. “Of course not. But what do you need?”

Ed’s eyes drift once again over Oswald’s shoulder, brow crinkling a little. Oswald feels frustration and worry bleed together in his stomach and he snaps his fingers in Ed’s face.

“Ed, _concentrate._ What do you need? Water? Food? Are you cold? Should I get you a-”

And then, because apparently despite all of his claims Edward Nygma is an absolute idiot, he tries to stand up. Oswald watches with mild horror as almost immediately the man’s legs give out from under him and he almost pitches forward, all set to collapse head first into the coffee table. Thankfully Oswald is fast, especially with Ed’s blood sparking in his system. 

He catches Ed before he hits the floor, hands and arms closing around his trembling form.

“Damnit Ed, you're too weak to stand right now.” 

Ed’s breath flutters against the exposed flesh on his neck and Oswald fights back a shiver. So close to him now Oswald can directly hear his weakened heart, beating too quickly, too faintly to ever be considered normal. 

“No, I can, just let me-” And Ed attempts to take a step away, pushing off with the little strength in his arms. However, he stumbles again and Oswald braces him, hissing through his teeth as he suddenly finds himself supporting the entirety of Ed’s weight. Despite his thin frame the man is heavier than he looks.

 _“Ed,”_ he barks, panic and frustration straining his voice, “stop trying to move and sit down. That's an _order.”_

Out of the corner of his eye he can see defiance simmering in Ed’s irises and he knows the man is about to try again, stupidly stubborn to the point of passing out. Oswald feels ready to snap, break in two, suddenly furious because why won't Ed listen, why won't he understand, why won't he just _obey-_

And suddenly the defiance in Ed’s gaze is snuffed out, body going limp in his arms. _What the hell…_ Oswald’s eyes widen as all at once realises what is happening. He is influencing Ed. 

But no, that doesn't make sense. He’d tried before and Ed had been impervious to it, his will had flinched away from Ed’s mind like it was wildfire, how could it suddenly work now?

“I'm sorry, Mr Penguin.”

Realisation comes like lightning. Oswald can feel his will stretching out, coiling around Ed’s throat in that golden, glistening thread from before and he understands. _Ed’s blood._ That's what this connection is, this band. _I'm inside you right now._ The same blood pulsing in two bodies, the same life flowing through two veins. Ed hadn't only entrusted Oswald with his death, he had also offered up his life, his mind, his free will without even knowing it.

“I'm sorry, sorry, so sorry...”

Still stunned, Oswald lowers Ed gently back onto the sofa, ensuring his head comes down to rest carefully against a cushion. “No moving this time, okay?”

Ed smiles thinly before it is distorted into a grimace, eyes pinching closed. “Promise.”

Quickly Oswald retreats to the bed, gathering up the duvet before returning to place it over Ed’s body. 

“I'm not weak,” Ed murmurs, voice thin with pain and exhaustion. 

Oswald sighs as he begins to tuck Ed into the thick material. “I know you're not, but you need rest.”

Ed does not appear mollified in the slightest by Oswald's words, face scrunching even tighter. “No, I'm not weak.” That ever present green light flashes across Ed’s pale skin in a burst of emerald. “You always say I'm weak.”

Oswald opens his mouth but quickly swallows back his confused reply when he realises - Ed isn't talking to him. 

_Is he hallucinating?_ Oswald frowns down at the man, wondering who it is Ed had seen hovering over his shoulder just a few moments ago, who's voice it is which is ringing in Ed’s mind. Before he had talked of another self, his other beastial side, the part of him which isn't remotely human...

 _Focus Oswald._ Shaking his head in an effort to clear his speculative thoughts he brings his attention back to his primary concern - Ed’s survival.

“Do you need some water?”

“No.” Ed’s words come out too short and clipped, breaths rapidly snatched between them. “No liquids. But...”

Oswald waits, bottom lip between his teeth. He suddenly worries Ed has fallen unconscious again. He gently shakes his shoulders, leaning over him.

“Ed, stay with me. Tell me - what do you _need?”_

Ed inhales sharply through his nose, closed eyelids twitching.

“I lose my head in the morning and regain it back at night. What am I?”

The words are barely more than a murmur yet they still cause Oswald’s jaw to hang open, body filling with shock and then quickly anger, frustration, fear. _Damn you Edward Nygma._

“Ed, I swear to all that is holy, if you expect me to answer a _riddle_ right now I will-”

“Pillow. The answer’s a pillow.” Oswald can't be sure but he could swear there is a slight smirk to Ed’s lips. “Put one under my feet. Helps the circulation.” 

Muscles still tensed in anger and sheer disbelief Oswald collects both pillows, as well as a cloth from the kitchen, returning to follow Ed’s instructions. Seated back beside the man he presses the cloth lightly against Ed’s damp forehead. 

“Anything else, your highness?” 

Oswald parrots the jibe from earlier that evening back at the other without thinking. Ed exhales slowly, head sinking back a little. There is a low grunt which Oswald takes as a no.

So Oswald stays by him, gently smoothing down his hair and trying not to think of how such a short time ago his own same fingers were twisting, scratching across Ed’s scalp as he sucked the life force from his body. As he murdered him. Oswald is mildly startled at how clammy and cold Ed’s skin is; not quite the same temperature as his own body thankfully, but it definitely can't be normal. He shakes his head a little, wondering how his life has come to this, why seeing Ed so helpless has suddenly such a deep effect on him.

“Thank you.” 

Ed’s voice is so quiet Oswald barely catches it, even with his improved senses. His fingers pause a moment in their ministrations before beginning again.

“It should be me thanking you.” Oswald also speaks in a whisper. Why, he does not know. “You risked your life at the smallest chance you could save mine.” _And I still don't think I know why._

“You don't understand.” Oswald swallows, the backs of his eyes burning as Ed’s voice cracks. “I can't let you die. I can't lose you. Not after everything...Can't... I _can't…”_

“Ed, shush.” Oswald can't believe how wrecked his voice sounds. “Just sleep.” 

That golden band tenses around Ed’s throat once again, his second order which must be obeyed. Ed’s mouth moves a little longer, noiseless but after a while it stops, his breaths eventually evening out. Asleep. Oswald feels his fingers loosen a little in Ed’s hair, tension in his muscles finally starting to drain away. 

“For what it's worth, Ed,” he whispers, not entirely sure why he is saying this at all other than the fact that it feels important, “I don't think I can let you die either.”

Carefully he removes Ed’s glasses, folding them before gently placing them on the coffee table. His hands hover uncertainly in mid-air. And then, because he is so weak and selfish and pathetic Oswald begins to trace Ed’s features with his fingertips, running them over the other’s sharp, cutting cheekbones, the ridges of his nose, his delicate eyelids and, after a moment's hesitation, his lips. They pause there for a few moments, the gentle, repetitive whisper of Ed’s breath warming them every few seconds. Finally Oswald lets his hands rest on Ed’s chest, adding just a bite of pressure so he can feel the weak rhythm of the man’s heart beating beneath such thin layers of clothing and skin.

_Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum._

As Oswald closes his eyes and lets the comforting rhythm fill him up from the inside, he can almost hear his mother’s voice, that gentle, pitiful tone which spins around him like music. 

_Oh my dear, darling boy...what have you gotten yourself into this time?_

 

////

 

Oswald spends the rest of night in an odd, detached state of mind. He hovers by the sofa, pitifully attempting to distract himself from the ever-looming cycle of guilt, worry and confusion, yet he is drawn back every few minutes, checking Ed’s pulse in fits of paranoia. As the hours float by the blood in his system settles and he begins to feel that old, familiar chill creep back over his skin. Still Ed does not wake up. 

His mother would always call this time of night the witching hours, where even the sun is reluctant to rise from its hiding place. Oswald perhaps recognises the truth in his mother’s words because, while waiting agonisingly for Ed to awake, all distractions proving fruitless and pointless, nothing seems quite real.

The longer Oswald waits the more he stares into the blackness, unblinking, and watches as the shadows begin to spin out distorted images and colours, the darkness metamorphosing into visions which seem simultaneously new yet oddly familiar. Strange and disquieting images of chains and bodies and blood and wolves... They all slither by too quickly, mercurial night-terrors which never take strong enough hold to evoke fear. More times than he can count Oswald blinks back to himself, Ed’s heartbeat still pulsing away beneath his fingers the only thing keeping him grounded to reality. 

These seemingly never-ending visions of shadow are why Oswald does not notice it beginning to lighten outside, nor the six mechanical crows of the cuckoo.

They are also why he nearly passes out when the world erupts into a cacophonous shriek.

_BBBBBBRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR_

Immediately Oswald is on his feet, muscles coiled, adrenaline shooting painfully through his chest as he spins, teeth bared in anger and rage and a sudden howling animalistic fury at whatever would dare break into this apartment, dare draw near when his back is turned, dare attack when Ed is defenceless and helpless and injured and only then does he realise-

It's Ed’s alarm.

It takes a good few moments before the roaring panic in his ears lessens enough for this fact to sink in. There are no police or thugs or supernatural banshees, only an empty room and his jumpy, idiotic tendency to over-react. Internally chastising himself for his stupidity Oswald allows himself to slip out of the strangely defensive stance he had automatically adopted, willing his muscles to relax.

Odd. The way he had angled himself without thinking, backing up to the sofa, arms spread wide...It had almost been as if his first reaction was not to protect himself, but to protect _Ed._

Shaking off a creeping feeling of dread in his stomach Oswald glances back at the man. No change. The alarm had apparently done nothing to rouse him. _Damn._

Limbs suddenly stiff and aching Oswald stalks to the bedside table, cutting off the shrill screeching with perhaps a little more force than needed. He catches sight of the time, 06:15, and suddenly feels a shock of panic run through him.

That is Ed’s alarm for work. At the GCPD. Oswald isn't sure how much longer he's going to be out of action, let alone how he will feel when he does wake. If Ed doesn't show up without any warning there could be suspicion. Perhaps someone would ring, maybe a friend would drop by to check in on him and that would cause even more complications. He could just wait for Ed to wake up and deal with it then, but he has no clue how long that will take. Is it worth the risk?

Oswald swallows, knowing what needs to be done. He picks up Ed’s flip-phone which rests beside the clock on the table, checks Ed’s call-history and, after a brief bite of hesitation, presses call.

After three dials he is connected.

“Hello?” 

“Yes, uh,” Oswald coughs, attempting to lower his voice, “I’m afraid Edward Nygma won't be in work today.”

He barely makes it through the sentence without breaking out into giggles because, good grief, when did his life become a sit-com? If Ed were awake right now he is sure the two would be on the floor, snickering like children at Oswald’s frankly hideous attempt at concealing his identity.

“Damn, _Nygma?”_ Oswald hears a popping from the other side of the line, as if the speaker is chewing gum. “That man hasn't had a single absence since he started working here.”

“That…” Oswald finds a faint smile playing on his lips, almost fond. He quickly schools it away. “That sounds like Ed.” 

“So, what's the deal? Why’s he off? Who are you?”

“I'm- I’m just a friend.” Oswald stumbles a little over his words, unsure why this lie is so much harder than the countless ones he's made before. Perhaps because it's been so long since he had to be as deliberately deceptive.

Or perhaps he is only just beginning to realise how little he knows of Ed’s life outside of these four walls. 

“Ha!” The voice on the other end cackles and Oswald feels something in his chest harden. “Shit man, I didn't know that was possible. Edward Nygma has friends?” 

Oswald’s jaw clenches and he finds himself grinding out his words through gritted teeth. “Ed is _ill_. I'm looking after him.” 

The voice chuckles, the sound ugly and distorted over the line. “Let me know if he vomits up riddles.”

Oswald narrows his eyes, gaze flicking back over at the unconscious form on the sofa. Lightly he taps his fingers against the desk. “Excuse me, _sir,_ may I enquire as to whom I'm talking to?”

“Officer Bill McCauley.”

“Well, Mr McCauley, I hope I can trust you to fill in any paperwork required to explain my friend’s absence-”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it. Nygma, sick day, check. Have fun nursing your ‘friend’.” The voice seems to become more distant, as if ‘Bill’ is putting down the phone but Oswald still catches the tail end of his comments. “Hey, boys! Would you believe it, the forensic freak is actually huma-”

And the line clicks dead.

Carefully Oswald closes the phone, wondering why he is having to expend so much effort ensuring he doesn't snap it in half. _Ed wouldn't be very appreciative of that, would he…_

With mindful precision Oswald replaces the phone and sits back down. He waits for a moment, letting the faint-but-there sound of Ed’s breathing anchor him.

“McCauley.” Oswald runs his tongue over his teeth as he presses two fingers against Ed’s neck. _Ba-dum. Ba-dum._ His pulse is far steadier than last night. Far stronger. He lets his touch linger longer than strictly necessary before pulling his hands to his lap, a dull anger chilling his skin.

Oswald pops his tongue. “Bill McCauley.” 

_Another name for the list._

 

////

 

It is 10:35 when Ed finally wakes up.

Oswald is alerted to this by a resounding, loud thump, followed in quick succession by a high-pitched squeal. Oswald jolts his head to the side as a similar panic he felt barely a few hours earlier resurfaces...only to watch as, lying beside the sofa on the floor, a writhing mass of limbs is desperately struggling to break free of its tightly wrapped duvet prison. 

Oswald’s mouth hangs open, momentarily frozen in place as he can only stare. “...Ed?”

After a few seconds Ed’s mop of hair pokes out from the duvet cocoon, quickly followed by his wide eyes. 

“Mr Penguin! I, ah… I appear to be in some difficulty.”

Hearing Ed’s voice, so much stronger and richer and _healthier_ than it had sounded last night, causes a cold, tight weight around Oswald’s chest to loosen. Everything seems to lighten, the tension borne of guilt and fear and regret seeping away with each passing second of seeing Ed breathing. Seeing Ed alive. The truth of that statement is a thunderclap in his brain.

_Ed is alive._

As this blessed relief settles Ed’s words begin to sink in, and Oswald can feel a dangerous twitch beginning to pull at the corner of his lips.

“So it would appear.” 

Ed blinks, eyes particularly owlish. “May I have some assistance?”

Oswald shakes his head, clearing his thoughts. “Of course, my apologies.” He limps forward, bending over to start to untangle Ed from the material. “Did you hurt yourself?”

“Oh, only my pride.” 

Finally he gets Ed standing, the man throwing a dirty look towards the pile of material at his feet, as if it had intended to entrap him. He seems to wobble a little but with Oswald’s hand on his arm he seems far more stable than the night before. 

“Do you feel better?”

Oswald takes this moment to properly survey Ed, gaze running quickly over his body and face. Already he can see the improvement in his colour, his cheeks thankfully lightly flushed with red. That disquieting blankness in Ed’s eyes has been replaced by a familiar spark and, despite appearing dishevelled and somewhat in need of a shower, he no longer looks on death's door.

“Compared to last night?” Ed’s nose crinkles as if the memory itself is an affront to him. “Considerably.”

That icy knot in Oswald’s chest unfurls a little more. 

“So you-” 

“Is _that_ the time?” Ed’s eyes grow comically wide as he stares at the clock on the wall, mouth open in a perfect ‘o’. “But-but that means I've been asleep for-”

“Sixteen hours.” Ed’s eyes focus back on the man in front of him and Oswald has to bite down a smirk because oh, he looks practically _scandalised._ “Don't worry, you have the day off.”

“What-” Ed clears his throat, obviously making a genuine effort to prevent his voice from raising any higher. “How does the GCPD know?”

“I called.” That mouth hangs open once again and Oswald can practically hear his mother’s voice - _careful, dear, or you'll catch flies._ “Don't worry, they didn't recognise me. I spoke to a very ‘amiable’ Bill McCauley.”

Something in Ed’s eyes darkens and his shoulders hunch ever so slightly. “Oh. Well you were in luck, he's unlikely to have recognised your voice.” A tiny frown creases Ed’s otherwise smooth forehead. “I doubt he has enough brain cells left to recognise his own reflection.”

Oswald cannot help a snort. Personally he agreed but hearing Ed be so petty- no, more than that, so openly _catty,_ catches him off guard. As yet another wave of relief floods his body Oswald begins to understand just how anxious he has been for the last sixteen hours.

“He didn't particularly like you either. Now, _sit.”_ Oswald cuts Ed off with a sharp look. That glittering chord which had stretched out between them has diminished now so Oswald is pretty sure he won't be able to influence him. But, even so, Ed acquiesces without the extra ‘motivation’.

“Genuinely Ed, how are you?” Oswald gently ushers the two of them down onto the sofa, eyes running another scan down Ed’s body in case he missed something. “You scared me last night.”

Ed blinks, that tiny frown still in place. “I feel...drained. Which is probably an apt choice of verb.” 

Oswald barely avoids rolling his eyes. _Ed and his technicalities._ “You said you went into hypovolemic shock.”

Ed raises an eyebrow, genuine surprise slackening his features. “I did?”

 _Here we go again._ Oswald feels something cold beginning to coil in his chest as he ventures the question in as light a tone as he can, attempting to mask his trepidation. “You don't remember saying that?”

Ed’s eyes narrow as they slip away from Oswald's face. He notes that Ed’s hands are twisted together in a tight knot in his lap. “I remember coming back from the GCPD, getting a few items of _footwear_ in my face, our conversation, agreeing to let you...feed, and then…”

Ed’s eyes glaze over as he tilts his head slightly to the side. Oswald’s eyes dart down to watch Ed’s tongue slowly run over his lips.

“Everything gets a bit of blurry after that, like there's this haze… Like it happened decades ago.” Ed swallows and Oswald finds himself matching the movement.

“So, you don't remember anything after that?” _This would be...interesting._ Immediately Oswald’s thoughts turn to Ed’s apparent hallucinations, his influence, those quiet, broken words which have been echoing through Oswald’s thoughts since they were uttered.

“No. Nothing. Except...” Ed’s eyes flash back to his and Oswald doesn't even know how to begin deciphering what lies in them, “I remember what it felt like.”

Oswald feels a shiver run along the length of his spine, Ed’s voice prompting the remembered feeling of hot, smooth liquid running down his throat.

“Oh?” Is all he can manage.

“I didn't-” Ed’s voice catches for a moment, and he swallows, “I didn't expect it to feel as…good.”

“Well,” Oswald’s voice feels rough in his throat, like gravel and he tries desperately to resist the urge to lick his lips, “you weren't the only one.”

Ed’s eyes narrow slightly. “Isn't feeding usually pleasurable?”

Oswald feels his fingers twitch, something in his skin thrumming at hearing that word in Ed’s voice. “No.”

“Fascinating.” Slowly Ed brings up his hand to his neck and begins to trace the skin around the bite marks, taking in a sharp intake of breath as his fingertips graze the wounds. Oswald eyes the movement greedily. “I wonder why that is.”

“You survived it.” _No thanks to me._ “You're the only person who's survived it, survived me. I’ve killed all the others.” 

“Correction - you’ve killed all the humans. There's a difference.”

Understanding slots into Oswald’s mind as he thinks back to the way Ed had recovered remarkably quickly from their first, rather violent introduction when he'd first awoken in this flat.

“So...you’re saying you survived because you're different?”

“My physiology has vastly improved regenerative capability. A human could never replace their blood fast enough to survive blood loss that severe.” Ed’s eyes are very sharp as he drops his hand back to his lap. “I'm probably the only thing in existence that could survive you.”

Oswald feels something heavy shift in his chest, as if those very words have just stabbed him through the heart.

_Pull yourself together Oswald._

“Well, regardless, I hope it will never have to happen again.” Oswald can practically taste the lie, sour on his tongue; he knows full well that for the last sixteen hours he has hoped and wanted for nothing more than _that_ to happen again. 

Something mercurial flicks in and out of Ed’s gaze. “No. There should hopefully be no need for it, as you say.” Something in his voice sounds off but Oswald cannot quite place what. He isn't sure he wants to.

In an effort to break this strange tension Oswald reaches across to the coffee table and straightens back up, holding Ed’s glasses out to him. Ed blinks down, that small line of confusion apparent yet again. That is the second time Oswald has seen Ed ‘forget’ his glasses and he wonders whether the man actually needs them. 

“Thank you.” Ed takes them, curtly putting them on with practised fingers. _Probably only habit...just like Oswald’s futile attempts to breathe. No matter what Ed claims both appear to hold onto small remnants from their old, human lives._ “Now enough about me. Do _you_ feel any change, Mr Penguin? Since feeding, I mean.”

Oh yes, his poisoning. Oswald had almost forgotten the original reason for all of this. He makes a noncommittal shrug. “Nothing immediate. The wound is the same and I haven't thrown up yet, but then again, Mr Leonard and Rory didn't disagree with me straight away. We’ll just have to wait.”

Ed frowns, evidently not satisfied by this. Oswald feels the sudden urge to laugh because, hell, Ed is actually pouting. “Ed,” he chuckles, “just have some patience. You're a scientist, you're meant to be good at waiting for results.”

Ed’s response is immediate, biting. “I don't want to treat your life like an experiment.” 

Oswald can only stare at that, mirth drying up on his tongue. Ed holds his gaze, sincere and intense at the same time. How the hell is he supposed to respond to _that?_

“Ed…”

“Mr Penguin,” Ed speaks too quickly, hands twisting in his lap, “while my memory of last night may not be all it should, I know there is something I need to say.”

Oswald feels a jolt of nervousness spike through his stomach, sure that if his heart could still beat it would have just sped up. “Oh? And what's that?”

Ed opens his mouth, closes it and Oswald wonders if he is about to decide not to say whatever he had planned to at all. “Mr Penguin, I…”

Ed takes a deep breath and Oswald only grows more terrified by the second.

“Yes, Ed?”

“I need to thank you...for looking after me.”

The relief which grips him is so potent it is almost nauseating. In an effort to disguise this Oswald tuts, waving a hand as if to bat away the words, trying not to contemplate exactly what he’d been so scared Ed would say. “Oh, it was the least I could do after, well, after everything. Think of it as nothing more than repaying a favour.”

“O-Of course.” Ed seems to stumble over his words, looking down at his hands which are knotted together, almost painfully. Oswald realises his mistake a moment later. “Well, while it may only be ‘repaying a favour’ it is still very likely that you saved my life when you had no reason to do so-” 

_“Ed.”_ Ed’s rambling is cut off in a short exhalation as Oswald’s hand reaches out to clasp his. The other man’s head snaps up, lips parted in surprise and Oswald smiles warmly in return. “After all you've done for me, this was nothing. Truly. Besides, I believe it's rather callous to let one’s friend die if one can prevent it.”

Ed blinks, eyes wide in shock and disbelief. Oswald’s smile only strengthens because he means it - Ed for all his oddities and technicalities and dangers is a friend. Perhaps his truest friend in Gotham. And, from what the charming Bill McCauley had insinuated, Oswald may be the exact same for Ed.

“Well then, Mr Penguin,” Ed says, his eyes brightening as Oswald’s words seem to have settled in his mind, the tiniest smile beginning to form at the corner of his lips, “I am certainly glad to have a friend like you.”

 

////

 

It's amazing how a single hour can change everything.

On reflection Oswald’s time in this flat can be split into two distinct periods - Before he drank from Ed, and After. Before, Oswald had been unwilling, distrustful, tentatively treading this odd acquaintanceship with a man who seemed both his saviour and his captor. Under every conversation between the two a rubber band had stretched tight, so very close to snapping at the slightest tension, one misstep away from breaking irreparably. Yet it never did.

Now, After, that jagged tension has gone, evaporated into nothing to be replaced with a newfound ease. The light, weightless quality Oswald had felt after Ed had woken, stronger and healthy, seems to fill the apartment like a delicate, scented aroma. Everything just feels easier.

Where Before the man’s presence had felt like a glaring light, too bright and too hot and always too close, now he slips into his personal space with startling ease. Oswald finds he doesn't even mind. Oswald notes more unconscious touches, even closer proximity, a growing familiarity between them and really it should worry him.

It does. A little. But something in Oswald doesn't care- it enjoys Ed’s presence. Alone for so long, and here is a man who knows everything and wants to be with him anyway. He understands. He might be the only one who can understand. Part of Oswald sighs out in relief whenever Ed brushes up against him. It feels right.

He doesn't know why it happens as it does. He doesn't know what specifically tipped the scales. It's strange, but for some reason Ed’s words - _I’m inside you right now_ -play on his mind.

Still, no matter what, Oswald knows this - it feels remarkably good to have a friend.

After waking Ed spends the day restless, his rather long lie-in seeming to have energised him. After showering and promptly eating a truly horrific amount which apparently his ‘advanced metabolism’ requires (Oswald has never seen so much bacon in his _life)_ he watches as Ed attempts to work through files but quickly gives up. He gets five minutes into a book until, with a huff of impatience, he discards it. Next Ed turns to housework, collecting cleaning supplies and getting to work on every surface in the apartment with a frenzied speed. 

Oswald rolls his eyes as Ed begins to clean around him, shooting him a dirty glare when he attempts to take away one of Oswald’s cushions. Strangely Oswald finds he is not as frustrated by the action as much as he might have been a few days ago. Next, after an hour of manic cleaning and dusting he turns to the laundry, and then the ironing and then, when no more housework seems to present itself, he seems to settle for pacing.

Oswald puts up with it for a miraculous three minutes before he caves.

“Isn't almost dying supposed to tire people out?”

Ed doesn't miss a beat. “You'd know more about that than me, Mr Penguin.”

Oswald narrows his eyes slightly as he watches Ed pace up and down, up and down. _Those legs really are ludicrously long...unreasonably so…_

“That's true. I also know a lot about murder and believe me, friend, if you keep _moving_ I may well be forced to commit another.”

Ed stops abruptly by the window, flexing his hands. Oswald finds his eyes drawn to the sharp edges of Ed’s profile illuminated by the stark green light, his fingers prickling with needles as he remembers what it had felt like to trace them.

“There’s something not right with me…”

Oswald raises an eyebrow but says nothing. He's learnt by now when Ed is in his thinking zone. He doesn't have to wait long.

“I need to go out.”

“Where?”

Ed swivels and strides across the room to grab his car keys from their usual spot. “The forest. I think my body needs to...realign itself after last night.”

 _He needs to change_ … Oswald feels that knot of anxiety coil in his stomach again. “Are you sure that's a good idea? What if-”

“I'll be fine. Really. I will.” Ed stops by the door, smile crooked. “I'll see you later.”

And with that, Ed is gone. Oswald runs a hand over his face as the immediate, small shard of abandonment nestles into his chest. For the first time Oswald desperately, illogically wishes Ed would change his mind, return, choose to spend his time with Oswald rather than somewhere else.

For the first time he associates Ed’s leaving with loneliness.

 

////

 

Ed is back before sundown. Oswald can smell immediately that Ed is...better. Something in his scent that Oswald hadn't even picked up on has righted itself. Ed’s features are relaxed, softer, the stiffness in his muscles having faded.

“Good?”

Ed’s smile is small but Oswald can tell it is genuine. 

“Good.”

Ed’s energy leaves him as quickly as it arrived. He only makes it to 17:45 before collapsing into bed, unconscious in a record space of time. 

Oswald waits, just as he has done for almost the entirety of this last week. Except tonight there is a difference. He does not wait while nightmarish visions creep out of the shadows, he does not wait while imagining all of the different ways he is going to torture and murder Galavan and his sister, he does not wait while pitifully trying to force the memories of his mother from the canvas of his mind. 

Tonight, instead, Oswald waits in the quiet, closing his eyes and stripping away all of the noise of the apartment, the street, the city, until his concentration is focused entirely on just one singular rhythm.

_Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum._

Oswald waits. He waits to be sick as he was before, waits for Ed’s blood to reject him as an abhorred, unnatural creature, waits for the lifeblood he can both hear and feel to burn out his insides and leave silver skid marks as it claws its way up his throat.

He waits. 

And he waits.

And he waits...

Ed wakes up with his alarm. He decides to go to work (best to keep up appearances, not that, in his own words, ‘anyone would notice or care’). Oswald confides he hasn't been ill yet, that the wound in his shoulder is beginning to close, the spidery veins withdrawing. They agree they will wait another day, just to be sure, but Ed promises with a grin that if Oswald can go forty eight hours without throwing up, tomorrow they will celebrate his recovery.

Oswald acquiesces, trying to hold onto his typical pessimism, clutching at that black cloud which has oppressed him since his mother’s eyes closed, yet it gets harder and harder. With each hour that passes he feels a renewed strength, that withering in his bones beginning to subside. After another day tumbles by and Ed’s gleeful announcement that, yes, his theory had been correct, Oswald gives in and accepts it.

Edward Nygma has truly saved his life.

“Mr Penguin!” 

Oswald looks up from his book, frowning. Ed is clearly standing just outside the front door, having seemingly just returned from his second day back at work. However, he is apparently refusing to come in. What is he doing?

“Ed? What's wrong?”

“I have a surprise.” Despite there being the thick metal between the two of them Ed only uses his speaking voice. _He knows I’ll still be able to hear him._ Oswald smirks. “I want you to close your eyes.”

Immediately, Oswald’s eyes are narrowing, that old paranoia creeping back into his thoughts as if it had never left. “I'm really not that big a fan of surprises…”

“You'll like this one. Trust me.”

_Ah, but that's what this is, isn't it? Trust._

Trust that this man is not waiting outside with the police department (wouldn't that be ironic, saving Oswald only to ensure he rots in prison), trust that he is not carrying a silver laced gun, accompanied by Galavan himself, trust that this has not all been one extensive, elaborate trap.

_You don't understand. I can't let you die. I can't lose you. Not after everything..._

No. This is Ed. He would have died for you, Oswald. Never forget that.

“Are they closed, Mr Penguin?”

Gritting his teeth and steeling himself, just as he would before entering a fight, Oswald chooses to do the impossible and leaps into darkness.

“Fine. They’re closed, Ed. Just hurry up.”

There is a sliding of metal, a click, a rustle and all the while Oswald’s adrenaline is rising, anticipating something, anything-

“Tadaa!”

Oswald blinks open his eyes and...Oh.

_Oh._

“I thought, after Mr Leonard, you deserved a gift which didn't make you throw up. At least, I hope this one won't.”

Oswald just stares, chest tight and painful. Mortifyingly, he can actually feel those traitorous telltale pinpricks at the corner of his eyes. _Not now._

Ed’s laughter trails off into something uncomfortable, anxious. “It was precisely to your specifications.” He coughs, suddenly unsure. “If- If you don't like it I can go back and-”

“No.” Oswald’s voice is rough, and he swallows. _This is not the time to get emotional._ “No, really it's fine, more than fine, it's…”

Before him Ed holds out a jet black suit, a speckled violet and blue neck tie hanging loosely over the collar and a matching handkerchief proudly adorning its breast pocket. Oswald can practically feel the smooth material beneath his skin, his fingers itching to run over the burnished buttons on the waistcoat, trace what he knows will be a delightful crispness only found in freshly pressed suits. Oh yes, it is far, far more than fine...

“It's perfect.”

Ed’s face splits into the brightest, beaming smile Oswald has ever seen and something in his stomach flips. Dazed, Oswald finds his first thought is to wonder who the last person was, besides his mother, that he genuinely made smile.

He also finds himself wondering whether anyone else can make Ed smile like that.

“Good. I'm glad.” Ed lays the suit down on the bed and briskly turns back to Oswald, eyes dancing with lights, bright and dazzling. “I thought tonight we could celebrate your recovery. But there's no point celebrating if you don't feel like yourself.”

Oswald tries to smile back but he can't quite manage it, he is so blown away by this man. Quickly he blinks away any lingering threat of tears. “Well, I...I should shower. Get changed.”

Ed nods. “I've got a bit of work to finish but after that, I'm all yours.”

Something dark pools in Oswald’s stomach. _All yours._ The words which have been reeling through his head over and over and over… Shaking his head, he collects the suit and hobbles across to the bathroom door. Pausing with his fingers on the handle, Oswald finds himself half-tempted to call over his shoulder ‘why don't you join me’ but, no, _no,_ he bites down on those insane words, stopping them from foolishly tumbling from his lips. 

_You really need to get these mad bursts of attraction under control, quickly. Before Ed realises. You know what happens when you open Pandora's box..._

Since he was a child Oswald has always preferred baths. At so many points in his and his mother’s lives a quick, cold sponge bath in a dilapidated washroom was all they could only afford; long, steaming, indulgent baths were so rare that now, Oswald instinctively associates them with affluence and luxury. Since Fish they are also now preferable for his leg. 

It had initially come as a slight disappointment to discover that Ed only owned a shower. Oswald assumes that Ed considers bathing an activity which should be as brief as possible, only there to serve a bodily function and not to be enjoyed. After all, why would he waste time in a bath when there is so much else he could be doing? 

Oswald isn't particularly fussy at the moment, so he enjoys the shower nonetheless.

After drying off with one of Ed’s excessively smooth green towels, Oswald begins to put on the suit. Finally. He lets the process stretch out, enjoying the odd swell of emotion it stirs in his heart which feels oddly like a homecoming. Putting on the suit, piece by piece, it is almost as if he is donning armour, readying his defences before battle. The measurements are exact and the colours just to his tastes. Ed had done well.

At the sink Oswald almost aches for a bit of makeup to cover the slight oddities in his skin, the unattractive shower of freckles and quilted splotches of discoloration. People never normally notice, but Ed isn't like people. Staring in the mirror, Oswald actually finds himself pondering the possibility of eyeliner or eye shadow, something that would give his dull features just a little more emphasis. But no, why is he thinking like this? Wanting to look attractive, _preening_? For _Ed?_

Once again, that cold dread curls low in his stomach; uncomfortable, undeniable and all too real.

Shrugging off the mounting trepidation, he returns his attention to his reflection, the one thing he can control. A quick ruffle to his hair and, spying Ed’s hair gel, Oswald gives it a little style, just enough so that he feels his old self. He looks up at the mirror, slowly turning his jaw left and right, before pulling back.

He smiles, teeth flashing slightly in the light.

There. _The Penguin._ At last.

All he needs now is an umbrella.

“You mentioned celebration?” Oswald steps out of the bathroom, fear forgotten and feeling three inches taller. There is a confidence to his frame and a slight swagger as he walks which have not been there before, muscles relaxing ever so slightly as he feels at home in his skin again.

He cannot help it but his lips stretch out like a cat, settling into a proud grin.

Ed looks up and instantly, Oswald’s smile shatters. With Oswald’s sensitive sight he watches the milliseconds tick by as Ed’s eyes widen, features going slack as he looks at Oswald. No, not looks. Ed doesn't look. He does so much more than that.

Ed’s eyes are whirlwinds, hurricanes as they travel the full length of Oswald’s body, starting from his head and trailing down, down, _down,_ lingering over every inch of him. His gaze is assessing, yet not nearly clinical or removed enough to be scientific. Emotions flicker by, shadows cast by Oswald’s form which send out dancing shapes in his pupils of awe, wonder, fear, excitement, disbelief, elation and those eyes only grow darker and darker by the second.

Oswald finds that the words which should come so easily are lost in that darkness, submerged in it. He hears a breath hitch in Ed’s throat, that heartbeat he has grown so sensitive to, tripping over itself.

“Mr Penguin.” It is barely a breath yet Oswald swears he feels those words like a palpable touch, prickling against his exposed skin. 

Oswald swallows, a rush of something he can't quite place going straight to his head as Ed’s eyes flick back to his. Oh. That's what this is. _Power._ That magnificent, addictive, dizzying feeling which hisses beneath his flesh. For the first time in so long Oswald feels powerful.

_Oh Ed, you have no idea what you’ve given me, do you?_

“Mr Penguin,” Ed repeats, slightly stronger this time. He sounds so much like he did when they first met in the GCPD, all nerves and boyish excitement. However, that false bravado and smugness is gone, replaced by something steadier, more grounded. Colouring his tone is...understanding. Appreciation. Respect.

Ed stands slowly, eyes still transfixed by the man before him. Oswald bites back the initial urge to step back, fighting against the shiver of self-consciousness which is far too reminiscent of his youth. Instead, he forces himself to watch as Ed walks towards him, eyes misty, as if in a trance. The seconds drag and Oswald’s skin crawls, the uncertainty of what is about to happen cold and tight and excited in his stomach. The darkness in Ed’s eyes pin him to the spot.

Finally, Ed is standing before him and now his eyes rake Oswald’s face, darting across his hair, his expression, quickly down to his feet and back up again. He is not smiling and yet somehow he still looks... _exuberant._

The world stills and Oswald holds in a breath he doesn't need, waiting, always waiting….

“It's a pleasure to finally meet you.” 

And Ed reaches out a hand to grasp Oswald’s. 

For a moment the shorter man is too shocked to respond, sharp surprise bursting in his stomach, harsh and unexpected. Oswald had been preparing himself for… for something else entirely. 

However, he quickly recovers himself and firmly grips Ed’s hand in return, allowing himself to enjoy the warm skin for a few, brief moments.

_Shaking hands...the first meeting we never had._

It is so Ed it hurts.

Oswald feels the tension release a little and he finds it in himself to smile again, albeit a little more reserved than before. “We’ve had too many first meetings to count.” 

“Oh no, I assure you I've been keeping a tally.”

This time Oswald does laugh. Ed smiles for the first time as he withdraws his hand to push up his glasses which have taken their usual place, perched precariously on the edge of Ed’s nose. Oswald tries not to feel too bereft as the cold envelops his skin once more.

“I would expect nothing less of you, Edward.” The full name slips out without his permission. Oswald pauses for a fearful second to see if Ed will retaliate at that...but no. Something in the darkness of his eyes intensifies but he makes no other response. 

“What are friends for?” Ed’s smile grows rather sharp and Oswald tries his hardest not to stare. “Now, I believe I promised a celebration…”

 

////

 

A piano coupled with a muted saxophone spin out lazy melodies, quiet, gentle notes unfurling from the old gramophone like cat’s claws at supper time. The apartment, which for so many long days has appeared drained of all colour and vitality, a grainy monochrome of blacks, greys and whites, seems tonight infused with new life. The harsh lights of neon signs and hovering helicopters seem altogether softer this evening; even the smell of the apartment is full with the mellow scents of a Chinese take-out, warm and spiced.

The air tastes of energy, the crackling anticipation before a storm.

Oswald sits in his usual place for their shared meals, the table beside the window, as Ed retrieves a collection of wines. He apparently catches Oswald’s slightly longing stare as he places the bottle on the table, lips twisting into a grin.

“I may have lied earlier.”

“Oh?”

“The suit wasn't the only surprise.”

Oswald leans back, gaze narrowing on his new found friend. Ed stands tall, hands clasped behind him. His mouth is tugged back, a smug grin crawling across his face and, not for the first time in the last two days, Oswald finds himself with the insatiable desire to lick it off. 

Arrogance looks good on him. Too good.

“I’ll bite.”

Ed’s eyes dance in the green light at the phrase, dark excitement boiling under the surface. 

“Tell me if I've got this right: since changing, your body has made it physically impossible to consume any liquid other than blood.” Oswald nods in response, unsure quite where this is going. “You return from the dead only to live a teetotal life. It hardly seems fair.” 

Ed turns and pulls open his refrigerator, retrieving something from inside. Oswald sits up a little straighter, confusion cutting through the mood of celebration.

“Ed, what is that?”

The man looks over his shoulder, one side of his face bathed in that ethereal, emerald light. _Green suits him beautifully,_ Oswald realises.

“Tadaa!” Ed spins on his feet and flourishes…

“Is that a blood bag?” Oswald is instantly alert.

‘Well,” Ed speaks quickly as he whirls around the kitchen, pulling out a second glass with all the flair of a ring-master, “yes. Specifically my blood. You seemed to like it well enough before.”

Oswald’s mouth feels dry. His eyes are drawn to the bag which Ed cradles in his hands like a precious relic. Now he knows what the bag contains, just whose blood it contains, he can't look away. He _wants._

“That- That’s very kind Ed.” He licks his lips. “You really shouldn't have. And you've been recovering...”

Oswald watches with rapt attention as Ed pours the thick crimson into one of Ed’s signature glass beakers. There is enough left over in the bag for another, maybe even two. Already the iron scent swamps everything else, Oswald’s senses singularly, painfully focused.

“I recover quickly. Besides, you deserve to celebrate.”

Ed places the bag back in the refrigerator and swiftly crosses the room, the two glasses in hand. One filled with wine, the other blood.

“Cheers.”

_Chink._

The sound of glass connecting sounds muffled. It tremors in the expectant air around them, the first distant thunderclap, heard a few miles away.

Oswald pauses: it has been so long since he held a glass he could actually drink from in his hand, the colour even dark enough that he can pretend that it is real wine. That alone sends a spark of anticipation through his nervous system. With the last remaining seconds of his restraint, Oswald lifts the glass, takes a moment to appreciate the old, comforting weight in his hand, to savour the scent which rises like perfume and then… then the world falls away as Ed fills him up from the inside. Sharp and hot and delicious - and different. Oswald feels his throat burn and his closed eyes snap open.

He finds Ed’s face in front of him, once again too close, too intense. He swallows and feels Ed stick in his throat. 

“I may have added a little something.” Ed isn't smiling but his eyes are a raging sea of emotion. His gaze licks down to the glass. “I didn't think it was fair for you to miss out on the wine.”

A surprised bark of laughter breaks free of Oswald's chest, a rush of air through his scorched windpipe. “Of course you did.” 

Oswald looks at his drink, considering. For all he knows Ed could have added any number of drugs or chemicals or sedatives to that blood bag, infused it with all sorts of insidious toxins. He truly wouldn't put anything past the man. 

But even as Oswald’s initial caution and paranoia rears its ugly head yet again, that taste is starting to trickle through his body, thawing the ever persistent ice which coats his insides, that sharp, hot fire of alcohol that he had almost forgotten, filling his stomach.

_I'm inside you right now._

“It’s delicious.”

_You're delicious._

“Bon appetit.”

And with that Ed begins to eat. Or rather, he begins the slow, methodical task of picking out each individual piece of onion in his noodles with surgical precision. It is oddly mesmerising. Time quickly begins to trickle away. As Oswald nurses his wine, watching the display and making light conversation, their knees brush against each other. Once. Twice. 

Oswald quickly begins to lose count.

Every time they do Oswald feels a slight tremor in his leg, as if even the briefest moment of contact holds the power of an earthquake, shaking the very foundations of the apartment.

“Tell me something about you that no one else knows.”

The question comes about fifteen minutes after Ed has finished his meal; something in the way Ed says it makes Oswald think it has been sitting on his tongue since the evening began. Oswald, having treasured each sip, has made it onto his second glass and Ed well into his third.

He pauses before answering, once again feeling the air tremble between them.

“What do I get in return?” 

Ed’s smile stretches lazily as he leans forward in his chair, their knees grazing against each other once more. “What do you want?” 

_And that's the question, isn't it Ed? What do I want…_

“A trade.” Oswald leans back, enjoying a slow sip from his glass. “I tell you a secret, you match it with one of your own.”

“Our game.” The green light flashes against Ed’s profile. “Alright. You first.”

Oswald smirks. “I'm dead.”

Ed releases a harsh huff of laughter. “Mr Penguin, that is _cheating.”_

“Well, that's not my fault.” Oswald feels the strong desire to stick his tongue out. “I like cheating.”

“Then all you'll get in return is that I'm a lycanthrope.”

Oswald rolls his eyes. “Fine, fine. You want a secret? Like what? My favourite colour?”

“Purple.” Ed’s eyes flash and Oswald feels a strange surge of pride swell in his chest. “I already know that.” 

_Of course you did. You picked out my suit._ Oswald raises an eyebrow, enjoying the tingling sensation at the back of his head.

“Then what exactly do you want to know?”

Ed narrows his eyes, sipping from his glass. “Anything. It just needs to be a secret.”

_This is what you get drunk off of, isn't it Ed? Not alcohol, not power - but knowledge. Privilege. Being the exception. The custodian of yet another secret. It's never going to be enough, is it?_

Oswald swirls his drink for a few moments, settling on quite what he wants to say. 

“Before I changed,” he begins, quirking his lips, “my favourite food was spicy mustard sandwiches.” 

Ed props his elbows onto the table and rests his chin on his interlocked fingers, eyes alight. “Really?”

“My mother used to make it for me as a treat when she had the money. It's one of the things I miss the most now.” Oswald takes a short sip from the glass, savouring the burn in an effort to push away the muted pang of grief in his chest at the memories. “Okay. Your turn.”

Ed stares at him for a few moments and Oswald wonders if he will ever get used to being the subject of such intensity. “I was suspended once.”

Oswald balks. “You? _Really?_ My, Mr Nygma, I’d have pegged you as the perfect model of a student.”

Ed ducks his head, a half-smile on his lips and suddenly he looks ten years younger, the unsure, unripe teenager caught in that awful in between of boyhood and manhood, self-conscious yet not shy, innocent yet not naïve. Oswald recognises far too much of himself in that one downturn of Ed’s eyes than he is comfortable with. 

“Well, I was a straight A student-”

“Naturally.”

“-But school could get incredibly _boring.”_ Oswald tilts his head and tries to imagine Ed as a student, all awkward edges and bubbling enthusiasm, boundless energy with nowhere to focus it, far too intense for anyone to want around. The version he first met at the GCPD and that younger Ed must have been very alike. He wonders what a young teenage Oswald would have made of him. “So one day I decided to conduct my own experiment.”

Oswald’s eyes widen a fraction. “Please tell me you didn't blow up the labs.”

Ed scoffs, as if the insinuation was an insult to his intelligence. “No, nothing that obvious. I just wanted to measure how small doses of the compound Persin would affect a quadruped. I added in a few avocado leaves to the things diet over the course of a few months...It wasn't my fault the kindergarteners had become too attached to the stupid rabbit.”

Oswald’s mouth flops open. “You poisoned the class pet.”

Ed tuts. “Poisoned is a strong word. I prefer...providing an essential, educational lesson of the fleetingness of life.”

Horrifically, Oswald finds himself unable to contain several giggles and snorts at this revelation. “You are unbelievable,” he forces out between splutters, feeling a flush of warmth cloying around his neck.

Ed grins. “Grief and loss are important for children to learn.” 

Yet another burst of giggles erupts and Ed chimes in with laughter of his own. Oswald's cheeks feel flushed with that glorious source of life and the alcohol in the drink is starting to make him feel lightheaded. _Hell, he’d forgotten how glorious being tipsy could feel._

“Well, on the subject of childhood,” Oswald manages after his small fit has died down, “I had an imaginary friend till I was ten years old.” 

Ed raises an eyebrow. “Is that your next secret?”

Oswald nods. “It wasn't anything that exciting. My mother told me stories of a great, glowing firebird that would bring both luck and doom to his captor. I always imagined it keeping watch at my window, scaring away the burglars.” He smiles, the slight ache of nostalgia plucking at his chest. “It was a better friend that anyone else was when I was younger.” _Or older for that matter._

Ed hums under his breath. “Nothing I imagine is ever my friend.” 

_‘Imagine’. Present tense. Interesting…_ The mirth appears to drain from the table, like sewage down a drain. Oswald, emboldened from the blood singing in his veins and remembering the night he had drunk from Ed, tentatively decides to continue questioning.

“Is that- Do you...see things? Now?”

Ed swallows, staring at his almost empty drink. He doesn't seem about to respond any time soon so Oswald speaks again. “It's just...you've had a few nightmares recently.”

“I sometimes…” Ed swallows again, fingers twitching against the glass. “Yes. When I'm stressed or emotional…”

Ed blinks, expression scrunching ever so slightly. Oswald can feel the darkness starting to creep into Ed’s expression, can feel the air thickening around them so, in an unusual turn of mercy, he decides to change the subject.

“I can't remember how many people I've killed.” Ed’s eyes flash up to meet his. “Genuinely. I've lost count.” Oswald forces a smile, hoping to create a little more levity. Ed does not smile back. 

“Does it ever worry you?”

“What?”

“The fact that you can't remember.”

Oswald shrugs. “If I dwell on it...sometimes, I suppose. I try not to.”

That fold in Ed’s forehead crinkles again as he frowns. He taps out an anxious rhythm on the glass.

“I don't think it will bother me.” A smile quivers on Ed’s lips before vanishing, consumed by the shadows. “Conscience is a very human creation, isn't it? Maybe that's why it's easier for us to just...not care.” 

Oswald’s eyes narrow. “I wouldn't say we don't care. It's only that our priorities are different.”

Once again, Ed seems lost in thought. Oswald decides to drop it, turning his attention out of the window. Gotham city seems particularly quiet tonight, as if the very streets themselves are hushed, desperate to listen in on their conversation. Just at the very fringes of the skyline Oswald can spy a dark cluster of rain clouds gathering.

“If a genie or fairy godmother,” Oswald’s gaze slides back to Ed, eyebrow raised at this rather bizarre opening line of questioning, “or a drug or whatever, offered you the chance to become normal, would you take it?”

Oswald doesn't hesitate. “Of course. If I could stop being this...if I could become human again. Live again-”

“That wasn't my question,” Ed says, with a sharp shake of his head, “I asked if you could become _normal,_ not human.” Ed swallows flexing his left hand, as if it had fallen asleep. “Even when we were human we weren't normal, were we?”

Oswald opens his mouth but no words come to him. He has no answer to that. They sit in the quiet for a few moments, Ed’s face tight as if he is trying to unravel the mysteries of the universe. _What must it be like in your brain, Ed?_

Ed huffs out a breath of frustration. The paper take-away box flaps ever so slightly in its wake. “I'm so sorry Mr Penguin, it's just… I'm so tired of pretending to be something I'm not.”

“Isn't everyone?” Oswald chuckles sardonically, feeling the truth of that cold in his stomach. _Isn't that what you thought day after day, longing to tell Jim, tell your mother the truth. But you never did tell her, did you Oswald? Not about what you'd become. Not about the mob. Not even before you changed. You told her nothing, nothing important, not really. And now those unspoken words are like daggers in your heart._

Oswald glances up and catches the look in Ed’s eyes; behind those irises is something fierce, something utterly pure and unadulterated, all focused on him. There is no name he can put to that emotion. No human name at least. Oswald’s skin itches uncomfortably as he coughs, the sound echoing in the room like a thunder clap.

The storm is growing closer.

“You owe me one more secret, Ed.”

Ed doesn't smile yet something in the glint of his eyes becomes stunningly sharklike. He bites his lip for a few moments and then, quietly, speaks. “I am a box who holds keys but not locks. With the right combination I may unlock your soul. What am I?”

 _Another riddle._ Oswald rolls his eyes but the spark in Ed’s eyes is far too tempting, so he thinks. 

“A piano.”

“Bingo."

The deceptive stillness of the apartment erupts as, in a sudden rush of movement, Ed stands and crosses to the other side of the room, the gramophone screeching to a halt as the calming melody is mercilessly severed with all the grace of a guillotine. Ed pulls out the piano stool, its legs grating on the wooden floor, and Oswald feels his interest pique; he'd assumed the piano was only for show, just like the bizarre fortune teller and other oddities in Ed’s eclectic collection. Oswald had practised on it a few times when Ed was out and reading no longer appealed, even though his ability is quite limited. _So Ed, you hide yet another hidden depth…._

Ed sits. Flexes his fingers. Breathes. 

In. 

Out.

And then, he begins to play.

It begins, a simple melody line, singular notes which warble in the anxious air. The tune is easy enough that a child could learn it, oddly reminiscent of playground songs like Frère Jacques or Three Blind Mice. However, Oswald has never heard this before.

The first delicate melody line is completed. Then, another is introduced. A lower, earthier harmony intertwining with the first, beautiful, elegant. Almost regal. And then the piece begins to grow, swelling with each note, technicality and difficulty increasing with every bar, each passing chord. The melodies and harmonies accelerate, Ed’s fingers crisscrossing over each other until the music races at a frenzied pace, dissonance and discords flicked from the keys at such a speed that they take on a pattern of their own, polyphonic, contrapuntal and all the while mounting and mounting. Ed plays and it is like the music is a living, breathing thing beneath his fingertips, flying, soaring, diving like eagles and Oswald flies with them, raised above the dark storms of Gotham and lost in the sheer, distorted beauty of it. 

_You wondered what it’s like in Ed’s mind? Well, it must be like this._

The madness of the piece begins to ease, the tempo slowing and Ed’s fingers no longer dance, hurtling through the air, but instead stroke the black and white keys beneath them. Every note caresses, kisses, drawing the very air to him, whispering sweet nothings in the dark.

Oswald doesn't even notice himself beginning to move.

Not until it is too late.

The music dwindles, reduces, contracting over and over like a Chinese puzzle box until all that is left is that first single melody. Simple. Pure. It floats high above them both, delicate stars of gentle, white light under which everything is dreamlike. Oswald barely feels it when his arm lifts.

The last note dies and the air between them quivers.

“Don't move,” Oswald whispers, and his voice curls around Ed. He can feel it again, that tight, golden band twisting around the two of them like a snake; his will forceful, overpowering, influencing, pulling them closer and closer and _closer._

He tilts Ed’s head to the side and steps closer yet again. His stomach almost touches Ed's back. He can see on his neck the light scars, two sharp pinpricks from a few nights before. Love marks that even Ed’s accelerated healing cannot remove. Possession drips down his spine and pools in his stomach; Ed is marked as his.

_I would have let you take it all._

Ed doesn't move, his whole body frozen underneath Oswald’s touch. The Penguin leans down, mouth but a breath away from skin, Ed’s artery pumping and flowing just beneath. Oswald can hear it, the endless ceaseless pounding like cannon-fire inside his chest. _Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum._ It is so loud Oswald is sure it is beating inside his own body, his ears filling with the sound till everything else has fallen away, till nothing else but this apartment, this body, this one moment exists. 

He can feel the intention, his jaw hinging open, his self-control slipping like blood down the gutter...

_All yours._

“No.”

Oswald snaps away, a sharp crack of horror lacerating through him. _What the hell are you doing? You idiot, after everything, you were ready to kill him?_ Stumbling away Oswald’s limbs are too heavy, as if he has just been doused in a bucket of ice-cold water. He doesn't know how he’d managed to pull away, doesn't know what broke the spell but he is certain of one thing: he had been completely ready to bite Ed.

And he wouldn't have stopped.

“How did you do that?”

Oswald turns away from Ed, the sound of his voice causing the most unbearable burst of shame to ricochet through him. He notes, with a muted wonder, that he is even still holding his wine glass, now empty of blood, in his left hand.

“Do what?” 

He hears Ed turn in his seat, can feel those eyes boring into his head with all the viciousness of acid.

“I couldn't move. You made me stay still. Your voice…” Oswald licks his lips and he tastes Ed. Another shard of regret burrows into his chest. _How the hell have things come to this?_

“I’m sorry, Ed, I-”

“I didn't ask for an apology.” Ed’s voice is lower, the slight bite of a growl undercutting the words. “I asked for the truth.”

Oswald pinches his eyes closed. “I've been able to do it since… I can't explain it, not how you'd want me to. I can just- just make people do things. Influence them.”

He can hear Ed breathing, heavy and dark. It catches slightly. “Why didn't you do that to me before?”

“I tried. I couldn't.” Oswald swallows. “At least, not until...”

There is silence and Oswald can't bear it any longer. He turns and immediately knows he has made the wrong decision. It is not Ed standing before him. No, those eyes are not Ed’s; those pupils are wild, burning with black fire as they consume the air around them, greedy and dangerous and _roaring._

Those black flames lick from Oswald’s face down to the empty glass still clutched at Oswald’s side. _Blood._ Understanding fills Ed’s eyes.

“I could...feel you.” Ed’s voice is so low, rumbling with that deadly thunder, and Oswald is terrified because he knows, _he knows._ He takes a step forward, eyes snapping back to meet Oswald’s. “I can still feel you.” 

Oswald flinches slightly as he realises he knows exactly what Ed means. Blinking, Oswald sees that glittering, golden chain spiralling out between them, connecting them by the same blood, the same heartbeat, the same shared existence. And the next second it is gone.

“Do it again.”

Oswald cannot stop his jaw from dropping. _“What?”_

“You heard me. Do it again.” 

Oswald cannot be hearing this properly. Ed _wants_ him to exert his influence? Abuse his abilities? Take away the most precious gift of independence? No.

“No!”

“Why not?” Ed takes another step and the space between them is vanishing, disintegrating. A sudden wildness flames in Ed’s eyes, as if possessed, gripped by some sort of insatiable madness. 

“I'm not a monster, Ed.”

“Yes you are.” Those words stab into his chest, cold and unforgiving. “We both are. You need to start accepting that.”

“It's your free will-”

“But you've done it before.” Oswald cannot answer. His jaw hangs like a swinging gallows. “I know you've done this before. Bent someone's will to your own without them even knowing. Eaten up their ability to fight back. Savoured their helplessness.”

Oswald can feel panic rising in his stomach, the very air around them rising, electrifying. “Stop.” 

“It must be intoxicating, having complete control, complete power. How far can you push people? Could you make them do anything?”

“Ed, don't-”

“Have you made people want you?” Ed’s voice is like gravel and each word cuts into him, lodges inside his chest. His eyes are infernos. “You must have done, how could anyone resist that temptation.”

“Stop it-”

“Have you made people want to touch you? Long for you? Ache for you?” He steps forward and Oswald is frozen in hellfire, choking on every poisonous syllable. “Have you made people kiss you? Forced them to open up their bodies, give everything for just a taste, just a touch. Have you made them _beg-”_

“Shut up!” 

And finally, Ed falls silent. 

The silence in the room chokes Oswald in its suddenness. His fists are trembling, one clenched around the empty glass, the other digging nails into his skin. Ed’s voice still reverberates inside his skull, those evil, sinful words stroking the crevices of his mind and how could he say, think, presume that Oswald would abuse someone in that way, is that how little he thinks of him, does he only look at him and see a monster, how could he, how _dare_ he- 

“Kneel.” The word is out of his mouth before he can stop it.

There is a moment of stillness where it seems all of Gotham takes a breath. Three seconds tick by. And then, Edward Nygma kneels to the Penguin.

The apartment is swimming as Oswald steps forward. One foot, then another, the air shuddering, static buzzing in his ears and all of a sudden Ed is directly in front of him. Ed looks up at him and Oswald doesn't know if the emotion which blazes in death throes in those pupils is rage or hunger or desire. For the first time he finds he doesn't care.

Want unfurls from the base of Oswald’s spine, its tendrils inching up through his body. It is a living thing, desire inexplicably rising up and refusing to be ignored. How long has he been pushing it down, obstinately refusing to acknowledge its existence, how long has he been cold and frozen and numb but now, with Ed on his _knees_ so close, so tempting…

The air between them, such a small space, seems to tremble as he pauses.

Oswald’s self control snaps and in an instant his hand is in Ed’s hair. Pulling, tugging, _scrapping_. Ed’s eyes flicker closed and his back arches up, hands clutching the front of Oswald’s shirt, pulling him down, further into him. The memory of Ed in such a similar position, such a short time ago, Oswald’s teeth buried in his neck flashes across his mind and the shock of it makes his fingers tighten in the man’s hair.

Ed groans and Oswald stops his movements, purring. “I said, be silent.”

Ed’s eyes snap open and he looks ready to choke. The noise stops. His eyes are black and Oswald feels his skin burn with ice.

“You want to know what I can do?” Oswald’s fingers run with the lightest touch across Ed’s ears, cheekbones, lips. His influence is a golden collar around the other's neck; he tremors as, with thumb and forefinger, Oswald pries open his mouth.

“I could make you do anything for me.” Oswald’s voice is so quiet, so gentle it feels far away, as if it isn't really him speaking. The words are not his but someone else's. Something else's. “I could make you want anything, do anything, give _anything.”_

With his nail he scrapes along the front of Ed’s uneven front teeth as something dark coats the inside of his stomach. 

“Shall I show you?”

Glass shatters. Instantly Oswald is across the room, influence over Ed evaporating as that chain is broken, splintering like his fallen glass. Shame and fear and panic and want, still that aching want, flood him. _What the hell is happening to me?_

Ed gasps as if he hasn't breathed for the last two minutes. Maybe Oswald hadn’t let him. _Hadn't given him permission_. Oswald has never felt so disgusted with himself.

“You never follow through.” Ed looks up through dark lashes and suddenly Oswald is in the presence of a hunter, not a man. “You never finish it.”

“I can't.” Oswald’s voice cracks. “I can't-”

“Bullshit,” Ed growls, “of course you can. It's just that you _won't.”_

He begins to stand, shoulders hunched forward as if preparing to sprint. Or pounce. 

“I know you feel this too. I can smell it.” Immediately, as if obedient to Ed’s voice alone, Oswald feels a pulse of desire spread out from his stomach, spiralling up through his body with greedy fingers. Ed’s lips curl, smirk twisted, ugly and he steps forward.

“Ed…” Oswald’s voice is warning as he backs away from the advancing man. All too soon his back finds the kitchen counter, thoughts uncomfortably bringing to mind the image of a butterfly pinned to a collector’s board, nothing more than a painted corpse, helpless, trapped, chance of freedom long gone, long dead. 

“I have been waiting for you my whole life,” Ed spits out, taking yet another step closer, “and you keep trying my patience.”

Despite himself, Oswald instinctively bears his teeth, indignant anger flaring through him. “I do _not_ answer to you.”

All too quickly Ed is there, eyes dark and close and already Oswald feels his body aching to betray himself, yearning to reach forward, that anger melting into something darker, the blood pulsing, pounding behind his ears, the storm singing for Oswald just lose himself in the taste of Edward Nygma.

“There’s only us. Against all of them. We’re different and wrong and they hate us, they've always hated us.” Ed takes one final step, their bodies aligned, every point matched perfectly yet still not quite touching. “So no, you don't answer to me, Oswald. _You belong to me.”_

And then, Ed is kissing him. 

Ed’s lips meet his with the gentleness of a gunshot and all over again Oswald is on that fatal pier, the cacophonous crack of a bullet erupting in his eardrums, something sparking behind his eyes which close of their own accord, his chest lurching as he falls down and down and down into sharp, icy water.

A tidal wave of emotions and sensations roar up to meet him and he is drowning in them. Panic. Rage. Surprise. Confusion. The black depths swallow him whole and he feels the waves surge above his floundering form. Ed is everywhere. Hands rough and demanding, lips and tongue hungry, as if a starving man delivered a banquet. His pulse is skyrocketing.

But then, before Oswald can think, before he can process, there is something new. He is drowning, oh yes, the dark, polluted water is pouring down his throat and filling him from the inside already, but this second death is different for one single reason.

Heat. Everywhere. For the first time since Gotham River, over a year ago, Oswald is overwhelmed by heat, warmth. Every point where Ed touches him, it scolds him, the fingerprints of Ed branding him like a mark of property. His insides are boiling, blood hissing beneath his skin and he wants more.

Ed’s tongue licks its way into his mouth and Oswald groans, from pleasure or pain he's not sure, but he cannot bring himself to care right at this moment. The granite counter behind him presses claustrophobically into his spine, Ed crowding his space. For the first time he understands what his prey must feel when he drinks from them; Ed’s actions are unmistakable as ones of devouring, feasting. His hands pull at his hair and clothes like he wants to tear Oswald apart, scratching at his skin as if to flay him.

No one could ever say Oswald Cobblepot did not give as good as he got.

He tears back, bites into Ed’s lip and moans as more blood fills his mouth, that copper aphrodisiac spilling down his throat, scorching. More _more **more**_. The height difference gives Ed a rather unfair advantage as Oswald has to cling to him, practically on his toes to gain access but nothing is about to stop him from enjoying the hell out of this. Seamlessly Ed’s mouth seems to teleport from his lips to his neck and-

“Ed!” The name is ripped from his lips as Ed bites into his skin. Licking and sucking and yes, _yes, more, eat me, drink me, devour me until I'm so small I can fit inside you, let me disappear, let me vanish, never leave, never be apart finally finally give me more_

Oswald can't bring himself to care that Ed is smirking against his skin because in an instant he is back at his lips, their teeth clicking together with the force of it. Oswald growls into Ed’s mouth, enjoying the breathless gasp he draws from the man as his hands find Ed’s hips, nails clawing through the fabric and into skin. He can practically feel the bruises bursting beneath his fingertips, his favourite shade of purple.

_I've waited for this for so long._

The heat Oswald has longed for finally swamps everything in its intensity, bubbling through his veins as he feels Ed shudder against him. Oswald has kissed before, desired before but this is so far removed from anything he has ever experienced, so much harsher and violent and more, _more Ed, give me more, let me see it all, let me rip away the mask and the skin and let me see the Beast beneath let me see the monster please show me the beauty the hunger the pain the hatred the hopelessness the grief desperation aching longing loneliness let me in let me share let me please don't leave me alone I’d do anything show you I feel it all too please say I'm not alone please just let me in let me-_

And then, it’s too much. Too much heat. Eviscerating. Incinerating. His thoughts are burning, his bones turning to ash, his skin peeling and Oswald doesn't understand why, _how_ this man can set loose this tempest. He is lost, the need to gasp in air overwhelming, like Ed’s quaking lungs are his own and he is only breathing in earth and dust, buried.

Oswald tries to pull back, gain some precious space to cool the unbearable heat but Ed is insistent. He can feel that same desire for more driving the other on but Oswald is suffocating, cannot keep bear it, why does it hurt so much-

_Crack._

Oswald’s eyes flash open in time to see Ed hit the floor a few feet away from him, a sickening thud echoing throughout the apartment. Oswald hadn't meant to shove him so far, had forgotten his strength under the oppressive need to breathe. His legs tremble with the desire to run but there's nowhere to go. Somewhere beneath his muddled thoughts he thinks his body would be showing the signs of a panic attack if it could muster the right symptoms. Instead, he is stuck needing something he cannot have. As always.

Ed groans, painfully lifting his head to stare at Oswald. He is incredulous, angry, aroused. The heat hasn't left him yet.

“What- Why?” Ed is breathing heavily, breaths coming out in short, hot bursts.

“Don't.” Oswald can feel his hands shaking, adrenaline pounding through his body at a breakneck speed.

Ed’s eyes flash and Oswald notices - he is also shaking. _“Why?”_

“Should I need a reason?” Oswald spits out, surprised to find how venomous the words sound. 

Ed looks as if he is about to say something, fists clenched, low growl building at the back of his throat but his teeth click shut. He flinches, clutches his stomach, expression twisted in an instant from anger to pain.

“Ed?” Oswald feels some of the heat give way, sudden worry filling him up. Had he hurt him? “What's wrong?”

Ed’s whole body is shaking now, tremors and spasms arcing through his back. “Not now,” he whines, teeth gritted and Oswald suddenly understands.

Ed is transforming.

All at once the anger leaves him, only to be replaced by a familiar rush of frozen fear. Oswald feels like a child in the midst of an emergency, lost and completely unable to help. Should he do something? What can he do? Ed had said that triggered transformations are dangerous, that they leave him more Beast than man when they finish, that he’d had an episode after he killed his girlfriend. _Was being pushed away by Oswald really as painful an experience as murdering his lover?_

Ed looks at Oswald and it confirms his worries.

“What can I do?” Oswald steps forward and-

“Stop,” Ed snarls, face contorting. Oswald flinches away. “Don't.”

Oswald feels like he’s been slapped but even so, he obeys. A low keening whine is beginning at the base of Ed’s throat and Oswald feels so useless, pathetic because this is his fault, all his fault, just like everything else.

Ed’s eyes pinch closed, the seizures slowing and, for a single miraculous moment, Oswald thinks he has regained control... But then the shaking doubles in force. Ed’s eyes flash open, pupils abnormally wide, black holes devouring the thinning bands of white around them; tiny streaks of crimson lightning ricochet out, bloodshot bolts glistening in the dark light. He growls, voice box already lowered in pitch and Oswald can see his fingernails starting to lengthen, can hear the first bone beginning to pop.

His eyes meet Oswald’s. They are screaming.

Ed throws himself towards the door, arms and legs scrambling over themselves in a desperate bid to escape. The great iron door is wrenched open, lock snapping helplessly as Ed’s nails, or now claws, tear it away. 

And then, he is gone.

Ed is gone and all the warmth and light in the room seem to have left with him, sucked out like a vacuum and all that is left is a quiet chill, creeping in through the open door. Oswald stands alone and he is frozen, numb, nothing but a painted corpse. There is nothing living left in the apartment.

A muted crash sounds from the alleyway outside.

Oswald doesn't know he's moved until he feels his hands on the windowsill. His body appears to be making the decisions for him under the circumstances. Peering into the dark below he just catches the briefest flash of fur, so dark it is almost luminescent under the street light. It disappears down a side street, feet clattering against the cement and leaving overturned trash cans in its wake. 

Gone. 

Oswald closes his eyes and rests his forehead against the window pane, letting out a low moan. Frustration, regret, pain, anger, longing...everything is tangled together, a tight knot of encroaching ice in his chest and undercutting it all lies a deep, deep ache. It had all happened so quickly.

 _“Ed,”_ he hisses, the name pulled once again involuntarily from his lips. His fingers find the indentations he had burrowed just a few nights ago, after drinking from Ed and doesn't that feel like a lifetime ago? Doesn't it feel like a moment ago?

Oswald pulls back, hoping to take some respite the biting chill of the air outside, but the moment he opens his eyes his stomach drops. 

Staring back is his reflection, yet not one he recognises. He looks thoroughly debauched - his hair, usually so meticulously styled, is now a mess of ruffled feathers and his face is flushed red with Ed’s blood. However, that isn't what catches his attention. Oswald raises a tentative hand to his lips and winces; they are swollen, stained, as if Ed had been using them for hours rather than what could have barely been a minute.

Ed’s taste still clings to them.

Immediately he pulls back, a dull throb of fear and, horrifically, arousal stroking his stomach. Backing away from the window, away from the reflection which taunts him in its depravity, Oswald feels something crunch beneath his feet. Glancing down he sees shards of glass. 

Right next to where Ed had been kneeling. 

Oswald has to put a hand out to the counter to steady himself, knees suddenly trembling because _fuck,_ the image of Ed right there, beneath him, kneeling to him is burned into his mind, a hot white brand which hurts to even think of. _He had looked ready to worship him..._

Oswald hugs his arms to his body, anxiously glancing around the apartment in an attempt to distract himself from that incredibly dangerous line of thought. For some reason it feels as if he's walked into someone else's house, the home of someone who has just died and he cannot bring himself to touch, disturb anything. Thoughts flurry through his mind, a cyclone of doubt: 

Why the hell had he pushed Ed away? He’s thought about it for so long, and if he's honest, wanted it for longer than he’d care to admit...so why had he reacted so badly when it finally happened? Moreover, Oswald hasn't got a clue in hell what he's supposed to do now. Run? Hide? Stay? Will Ed want him to stay? And when he comes back, will it be him or a beast? Will he even come back at all?

Oswald flinches as a sharp noise cuts through his thoughts. The cuckoo shrieks out one...two...eleven.

Eleven o’clock? Is it really only eleven? Oswald could have sworn he had passed through the night and that now a black sun is due to rise over Gotham’s steel heights.

Warily, as if Ed has not disappeared into Gotham’s underbelly and is actually hiding in the corridor, a predator ready to pounce, Oswald makes his way toward the door. The very open door. While nothing has truly been stopping him from leaving apart from his apathy and misery (what door could hold _him?_ ) seeing it torn open, a gaping wound in the brick wall, is a striking visual symbol of Oswald’s potential freedom.

He could leave...Run. Never again see this damn apartment, never again hear another bloody riddle, never again have his senses assaulted by the forest fire masquerading as a man. That would be what Ed expects him to do. Probably even wants him to do. It would be so easy, just forget about Ed, forget about Galavan, forget about everything…

_Oh, but would it really, Oswald? You're never going to get the scent of that man out of you now. Edward Nygma will go with you however far you run, just like your mother, just like Gotham._

“Damn you, Ed,” Oswald spits, teeth clenched. With a growl curling up from his chest Oswald wrenches the door back into place, forcing it closed. Trapped once again, with no one to blame but itself.

_The Penguin is, after all, a grounded bird. Flight has never been an option. Not before and certainly not now._

Oswald clears away the shattered glass. He cleans up the meal. He closes the piano lid. He removes any trace of that evening, opens the window and concentrates on the cool, chill air. He sits and he waits and he listens as Gotham pours in through the window; the city twines itself around his limbs and seeps into his skin, solidifying around him like tar. After the scorching heat of the evening, of Ed, he is thankful for the blissful numbness it brings him.

Maybe he is getting better at waiting. Or maybe Ed is only gone for a short while. Regardless of the reason it feels, ironically, that Ed returns home very quickly. 

Slow, heavy footfalls. Scratching against metal. A low whine.

 _If he were human he would have opened the door himself._ Oswald takes a moment to steady himself before rising, crossing to the battered door. He pauses for a moment, that remembered fear of seeing Ed for the first time in his canine form, the sharpness of those teeth, the size of those claws, flooding back...

Taking in a breath he doesn't need, he slides open the door. 

_Ah._

Oswald feels something shaken loose at the sight of Ed. Those huge, intelligent eyes which contain so much more than any animal should, stare up at him, dark fur thick and shining even in such dim light. He is larger than he remembers. Something cold runs down Oswald’s neck as some ancient part of him once again recognises a being of immense of power and danger before him.

Ed blinks and Oswald is relieved that that horrific, wild madness which had roared in those dark pupils before is gone. The fact that he hasn't jumped into a furious attack upon sight must be good news. Somehow Ed must have got it under control, fought back the Beast, controlled the monster. But still, something doesn't feel right. _If he has it under control why hasn't he transformed back?_

Oswald steps aside and Ed, shaking his head almost imperiously, limps across the threshold…

Limps. Oh hell, Oswald thinks, feeling a stab of sudden cold fear, Ed is hurt. 

Ed lumbers into the apartment with none of his usual grace or precision and, in a rush of fur, clambers onto the bed. Oswald slams the door closed quickly, stomach churning at the fear of prying eyes, yet even the loud screech of metal hinges cannot cover up Ed’s grunt of pain at the movement. 

Oswald watches warily as the giant wolf curls up on the bed in an almost self-protective stance, its chest rising and falling heavily. A low, painful whine is beginning from deep in its throat. 

“Ed?”

The wolf moans out again, the sound brittle and mournful. Ed’s eyes are pinched closed. Cautiously, Oswald approaches the bed, trying to assess quite what it is wrong...he smells it at the same time he sees it.

A jagged gash, disguised by the onyx hair, runs crisscrosses along the creature’s stomach, about three inches long. Blood matts the fur around it, causing it to glisten in the dim light. It looks shockingly ugly.

Cursing under his breath, Oswald immediately rushes to retrieve the first aid kit Ed keeps underneath his sink. Biting his cheek, Oswald tries to push past the scent of that blood clogging up his senses and instead forces himself to be clinical. _Ed is hurt. It's your fault. Help him._ Approaching, Ed’s eyes flicker open and lock with his. Oswald freezes, waiting for... waiting for permission. 

“Ed,” Oswald begins, mouth dry and eyes burning, “let me help you. _Please.”_

Stillness descends, that faint ticking underscored by the gentle whirring of the fan. Tick. Tick. Tick. 

And then, wearily, Ed nods and closes his eyes. 

Relief swooping in his stomach Oswald hurries forward, sitting down on the covers and tentatively begins to disinfect the wound as gently as he can. Ed growls, flinching a little but he does not make a move to swat Oswald away. Another wave of dizzying relief rushes over him - despite its ugly appearance, the wound is thankfully not deep, only leaving a surface gash. Any deeper and it would have pierced internal organs…

“Ed, what _happened?”_ Oswald cannot keep the fear out of his voice. Ed whines in response.

Did someone attack Ed? Did _Ed_ attack someone? Did he somehow do this to himself? There are too many questions and Ed is frustratingly limited in his communication. Maybe it was the pain of the injury that brought Ed back to himself, superficial though it is. Oswald knows that he heals remarkably quickly, that really this might be a huge overreaction but seeing Ed so weak, so drained makes him irrationally scared, just like before.

Finishing Oswald draws back, closing the kit with a quiet snap. Wondering what he should do next he glances down and notices, with a faint throb of horror, that some of Ed’s blood has smeared across his fingers. He thought he'd been careful. Obviously not enough. Oswald feels his willpower dissolving, the dull ache of want starting to curl through him again and he stares at Ed panicked; he knows that if he starts he won’t be able to stop. Oswald meets Ed’s now open eyes, those huge orbs which are both fully canine and fully human, unfathomably deep, impossibly knowing. 

_“Ed.”_ The syllable leaves his throat, a choked sob. A plea.

That is all it takes. Ed leans forward, straining to get close enough, and very slowly, begins to lick Oswald’s hand, each drop of blood carefully, almost surgically removed with short, sharp licks. _Oh, Ed..._

“I'm so sorry,” Oswald whispers, voice thick with too many emotions. He has no idea what he is apologising for; influencing him, kissing him, rejecting him. Maybe just for even existing. All he knows is that the words are begging to be released and they are gone before he can catch them and chain the back. _I'm sorry, Ed, sorry for everything, I never meant to drag you into the hell of my existence, please forgive me._

Once his task is done, the blood removed with the efficiency of a surgeon, Ed looks back up at him. The moment stretches and Oswald watches as the emotions of Ed’s eyes are stripped back, the unreadable mask dropping like scales and suddenly, laid bare beneath it all, there is revealed such pain. Those great glassy orbs are sad, so achingly, brokenly sad which screams of loss unimaginable and in them, Oswald sees his own reflection, captured, drowning.

Ed’s snap closed and immediately that deep pain is tucked away, hidden from the world. Ed retreats back, settling his head against his large forepaws and let's out the quietest, broken whimper. 

For some strange reason Oswald feels the urge to cry.

 _Fuck it._ His self-control is so battered, so frayed by exhaustion and the recoil of tonight's tempest of emotion that Oswald cannot find the strength to resist his first instinct. Putting aside the kit, he climbs onto the bed, lying alongside Ed as he carefully tucks his body into the remaining space. Ed huffs, the warm breath hitting Oswald in the face, but even so he adjusts slightly for the other man. It only takes a few seconds until they are perfectly aligned.

“I'm sorry, Ed,” Oswald whispers again, hand instinctively reaching out to stroke Ed behind the ears, grounding himself on the feel of thick fur between his fingers, “I'm so sorry.” 

Ed tilts his head and licks at Oswald’s fingers again, the movement causing a stab of bittersweet pain to bloom in his chest. Then, the wolf’s head rests against his paws once more and does not move again. Oswald cannot stop himself carding his fingers through his fur, anxiously watching for each rise and fall of the other’s chest even in sleep, an all too familiar routine. 

_Not quite how you imagined your first night in bed with Edward, is it?_ Shaking his head slightly, Oswald forces down the rising panic in his chest, a skill he has gotten surprisingly good at recently. He turns his attention instead on Ed’s breathing, that constant heartbeat. After a while he can even imagine that it is his own heart pounding, it is his own chest rising and falling. _Keep breathing Ed. I can't lose you too. Not now._

After another indiscernible stretch of this never-ending night, Ed’s eyes blearily blink open. Gruffly, he sniffs and, with great effort, begins to rise. 

“Ed, what-” Oswald’s words are cut off as, rather ungracefully, the wolf clambers off the bed, landing a little too heavily for Oswald’s liking. But, sure enough, Oswald begins to hear that awful popping and tearing and groans of effort, confirming his suspicions. The transformation sounds so much more strenuous than it did before, this time Ed only barely holding back a scream.

Still, like all things, it ends. Ed, now clothed only in skin, crawls back onto the bed, body sheened with sweat. In a rather amazing show of self-restraint Oswald averts his eyes and holds out a sheet; cumbersomely, the other man covers himself with it. 

Blindly his fingers reach out. Oswald takes them, guides him back. Ed collapses against him, head finding Oswald’s chest as he clutches the side of shirt. He is shaking.

“I'm here, it's okay.” Oswald murmurs sweet nothings into his hair as Ed curls around him, clinging to him as if Oswald is the only thing keeping him breathing. “I'm not leaving. It's okay. I'm here, Ed, just breathe.”

Eventually the death grips relax and Oswald can hear the subtle shift in his breathing, indicating Ed is finally asleep once more. Even so, he finds the words are pulled out of him still, he can almost feel them wrapping around the man like smoke. Perhaps he is still influencing him. Oswald really doesn't know. Part of him also doesn't care.

_I'm in too deep._

“What are you doing to me, Ed?” he whispers into the darkness.

Absentmindedly Oswald trails his hands through Ed’s hair, runs his nails down the sharp curvature of his spine, something instinctive and possessive rising up within him. Still caught in sleep, Ed shivers.

“Why are you making me want things I can't have?”

_Bang._

The knock at the door almost makes Oswald jump out of his skin. Ed moans at the noise, head burying even deeper into Oswald’s chest but stays submerged in sleep. 

Instantly Oswald’s mind races ahead of itself. _Galavan. He’s found you. You weren't careful enough and now he's outside with a gun laced with silver and ready to kill you both._ Ed is injured. The lock is broken. There is nothing you can do. 

Unwillingly, he extricates himself from Ed’s embrace, getting off the bed and, tensing, peers through the fisheye...

“Gabe!” Surprise and relief are so pure in that moment Oswald feels lightweight, his head no long connected to his body as he flings open the door. He has to restrain himself from throwing himself at the bigger man for a hug. “You found me!”

“‘Course, Boss.” Gabe gives Oswald a rueful smile. His eyes are warm, if tired. “Sorry I'm late. Took me awhile to get the note but I managed to track down this guy’s address eventually.” 

One of Maroni’s old tricks - Oswald had adopted it as one of the few worthwhile strategies he'd seen the old mob boss use. If Oswald ever had to go on the run or lay low for a while he had an arrangement with a small, low-level tailors on the edge of the Narrows. There were various messages they'd decided upon but, specifically, if ever a suit with Oswald’s exact measurements was ordered they were to contact Gabe, using the billing address to track where Oswald was. They'd had a few trial runs before but never had need of it in a genuine emergency. Until now.

Oswald had completely forgotten about the whole thing.

“That the shmuck?” Gabe peeks his head round to catch a brief glimpse of Ed curled up on the bed. With a sudden surge of possessiveness Oswald puts a hand up against the doorframe, blocking him from view.

“That's the one.” 

Gabe pats his holster. “Do I need to…”

 _“No.”_ Oswald replies, swifter and harsher than he intended. “Ed saved my life. Without him I wouldn't be here right now.” 

Gabe’s eyes flick back to Oswald, eyebrows knotted together...and then understanding slots behind those big eyes. Oswald feels a brief twinge of embarrassment as he realises just what it looks like, with his thoroughly dishevelled appearance and a quite clearly naked man lying in bed…

He purses his lips and sends up a thankful prayer that hired help are not paid to speak their mind. 

“Then I owe him one.” Gabe nods, eyes giving Oswald a once over. He frowns a little gaze focusing on a few patches of blood on Oswald’s shirt. Ed’s blood. “You hurt, Boss?”

Oswald shakes his head, jaw tightening. “I'm fine. Nothing to worry about.”

“Glad to hear it.” And at that, as if satisfied all of his preliminary questions have been answered, Gabe seems to tense, standing up a little taller, as if bracing for something. “Boss - we did it.” 

Oswald frowns. “Did what?”

“We found Galavan.”

Galavan… The words take a good few moments to register, Oswald’s head is so full of everything else, the events of tonight filling his mind like feedback. But then, the words hit, and Oswald feels that old rage come roaring back as if it had never left, matches striking gasoline and unleashing that deadly fire which burns for revenge on his sainted mother’s killer. Amazing how three words can suddenly change everything.

_I will make Galavan pay for what he's done to me._

He'd promised that, hadn't he? The moment he decided to risk Ed’s life for a shot in the dark his could be saved. This is it. He knows it is. For so long he has been helpless, festering as Galavan stripped his city of everything he has worked towards. This is what he came back for. This is what he chose to live for.

_Then why are you hesitating?_

Oswald casts a glance back over his shoulder - Ed is wrapped in the covers, curled so tightly into a ball it is almost foetal. It is the most vulnerable he has seen him. The words stutter in Oswald’s mouth at the realisation and something primal in the back of his skull calls for him to stop, tugs at him that no matter what revenge he wants to reek, he should not leave this man. Not now. Not after everything.

“This might be our only chance.”

Gritting his teeth, Oswald pushes away that instinct and turns his back on the apartment.

_I'm sorry Ed, but I’m tired of waiting._

“Alright, Gabe. Give me two minutes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy return of Gotham! To celebrate I give you some resolved sexual tension at last. 
> 
> Okay, first off I have some massive thank yous to make. Over the last three-ish months since this fic was last updated it has doubled in hits, had some of the longest and loveliest comments I've ever received and been translated into Russian (http://archiveofourown.org/works/9588284 by the amazing @Red_Evil_Twist) _and_ Mandarin (http://archiveofourown.org/works/10349076 by the stunning @Dr_Henriette_Nygmobblepot)
> 
> It has also received not just one, but TWO pieces of truly beautiful fanart by @Riverance ( http://riverance.tumblr.com/post/158310220358/red-in-tooth-and-claw-by-thelivingfactor-im-so ) and @Koti (Karria on tumblr) http://i.imgur.com/xBxhbLm.jpg
> 
> Just….. What?????????!!!!!!!?????????!!!???!?? I've never had this kind of response to something I’ve written before and honestly it’s absolutely staggering. You guys have completely blown my mind with your generosity, support and encouragement and I am so utterly speechless, I can't believe it. I'm really sorry this chapter has taken so long but there have been a few things which have cropped up in my family life making it difficult to find time to write. Thankfully it's all okay now, even if exam season has started…Ah well. For a while I dabbled with the idea of splitting this chapter as it is, by a long shot, the longest single chapter I’ve written (it doubles the other’s length!) But I decided in the end that it’s such a pivotal one for Oswald, where his perspective on pretty much everything goes through a full 180 and the power play gets an extra few dimensions added, I didn't want to clip it down. To cut it would be to cheapen it, even if it was a beast to write/edit/read. So, hopefully this can feel a bit like a double upload!
> 
> I really hope you liked it and it was worth the wait - please do drop a comment to let me know what you thought. However short or long they seriously make my day and do wonders in motivating me to write. You're all amazing and I’ll see you in the next chapter! We’re not quite out of the woods yet but we’re getting close...


	7. animals like me don't talk anyway

_The world may call it a second chance_  
_But when I came back it was more of a relapse_  
_Anticipation's on the other line_  
_And obsession called while you were out_  
_Yeah, it called while you were out_

_There is simply nothing worse_  
_Than knowing how it ends_  
_And I meant everything I said that night_  
_I will come back to life_  
_But only for you_  
_Only for you_  
_**Calendar - Panic! at the Disco**_

 

_Running._

_He is running._

_Running and running and running, four legs tumbling over themselves, muscles burning._

_In front and around is darkness, black cinders and ash. Behind is lightning, thunder cracking through the void. His heart beats so loudly he thinks it might break._

_Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum._

_Scents fill the air. Dust, iron, steel, metal. Blood. The fumes of war, a battlefield which rages around him, biting into his exposed skin, filling his windpipe, blinding his senses to everything else. He runs faster, not knowing why._

_It takes him eons to realise that he is not merely running. He is chasing._

_He is too slow._

_Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum._

_Ed runs and runs and runs and when he finally stops the darkness has coalesced into walls and desks and pillars. The GCPD stretches out before him, arches imperial and imposing as its stained glass casts a kaleidoscope of muted colour against the shadows._

_With thunder crackling on his heels he hurries inside, slipping into skin with the ease of changing clothes._

_A tower, a monolith of bodies lies heaped in the centre: half-dressed, naked, bloody, bruised colours of yellow, black, purple, scarlet. There is no ceiling, only dark clouds circling overhead as the colossal structure soars above the black fog._

_A voice echoes out, sounding even above the rumbling of thunder and the pounding of Ed’s heart._

_“Come.”_

_Ed feels that vice-like band of ice press against his skull and he obeys. He has no choice. He climbs over bodies and broken appendages; the reek of decay almost makes him gag, hands slick with blood as he scrambles ever upwards._

_He slips._

_He lands, face level with that of Detective Gordon. One eye has been half eaten by maggots. His gums are bloody, teeth rotten and missing._

_“Come.”_

_Ed gets up and climbs._

_Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum._

_Finally he reaches the top. Before him, atop this tower of mutilation, sits a huge throne made of thorns and briars. And on that throne sits the King of Gotham._

_He is a part of the throne. Thorny veins protrude from milk-white skin, the darkness of his suit indistinguishable from that of the air around him. His eyes are empty sockets, burning coals emblazoned a deep red, burgundy, so dark they are almost purple._

_“Kneel.”_

_Ice coats Ed's body, his knees cracking as they slam into the slippery mound of bodies beneath him._

_Oswald is in front of him far too quickly, fingers tracing his face. His skin breaks apart, blood trickling down his face as Oswald's nails cut in. He has to blink it out his eyes._

_“You don’t answer to me, Edward.”_

_Those freezing fingers close around his neck and the world bursts into scarlet._

_“You belong to me.”_

_Ed wants to scream but when he opens his mouth the blood pours in, thick, hot, burning his throat and he cannot breath._

_Blackness descends as the world disappears._

_Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum._

_When he opens his eyes he is staring at Miss Kringle._

_Ed is lying down, wrists and ankles taut against their restraints and above him hangs Miss Kringle, suspended in the air on wires, unmoving._

_Except, it isn’t really Kristen. It is Kristen’s corpse. Her lips are that delicate shade of blue he remembers so well, open eyes blank and unseeing, skin the colour of off-milk. Ed feels no repulsion or disgust, only that faded fondness one gets when discovering a picture of a childhood friend from long long ago._

_Oswald makes a far prettier corpse, he thinks. Kristen never could quite pull off blue._

_Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum._

_Ed blinks and Miss Kringle vanishes, as if she were never there and instead Ed stares back himself._

_It takes a while before he realises he is lying beneath a mirror._

_Ed is on an operating table. His arms and legs are restrained, limbs firmly secured beneath the blue sheet which covers him from the waist down. The metal beneath him is cold, like he is lying on ice._

_His attention catches on his reflection’s mouth. Unlike Kristen’s delicate blue, his lips are scarlet, unattractively bright. Over them are stitches, huge, jagged cords of twine and thread laced over his lips. Sewn shut._

_His eyes are large and fearful as he tears his gaze away. His reflection winks back at him._

_Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum._

_A door opens. Doctor Thompkins enters, distorted smile cracking her face like plaster. Ed suddenly gains perspective on his surroundings - he knows them well._

_He is in the morgue._

_“You wouldn’t mind some music, would you Edward?” Lee’s smile widens and another line cracks along her cheek, splitting open the skin to reveal the muscle tissue and jawbone beneath. “No, of course you wouldn’t. The dead don’t mind anything.”_

_Lee turns aside to a gramophone Ed has never seen before. The frantic pounding of his heart matches perfectly with the track’s opening beating drums._

_**~ This face in my dreams seizes my guts ~  
~ He floods me with dread ~** _

_It is Oswald’s voice. Low and sultry and breathy. The sound Ed knows he has never heard before echoes against the stone walls, filling the room like wine in a glass, seeping into every pore on Ed’s body and simmering in his blood._

_“It helps him concentrate.”_

_Ed follows Lee’s gaze upwards to the mirror. Despite him seeming alone in the room but for Lee, the mirror shows two people presemt, not one. Lee Thompkins with her cavernous smile, and Oswald Cobblepot._

_Ed’s heart cracks against his ribs, thundering in his head._

_Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum._

_**~ Soaked in soul ~  
~ He swims in my eyes by the bed ~** _

_Oswald’s voice oozes through the air, so heavy it is clogging up Ed’s airways, yet the Oswald he can see, this warped reflection wearing a surgeon’s uniform, is not singing._

_“Now what do we have here?” The reflected Oswald is monotone, apathetic._

_Ed tries to speak but he cannot open his mouth. His wrenches his jaw trying to part his lips but it only makes the stitches pull tighter, cutting deeper into his skin. Every noise he makes in his throat comes out garbled, muffled._

_Muzzled._

_**~ Pour myself over him ~  
~ Moon spilling in ~** _

_Oswald’s voice continues to cut down his ear canals, so loud and painful it screams inside his blood._

_The mirror catches a sharp, leering light. Oswald’s reflection holds a scalpel, twisting it back and forth. Considering._

_The sight kickstarts something in his stomach and Ed strains against the restraints, the leather rubbing his skin raw but he cannot stop. He needs to run. Now. He is terrified, bone-deep terror which is devouring him from the inside out. But his heart isn’t beating any faster. It’s not beating at all._

_How can he already be dead?_

_**~ And I wake up alone ~** _

_“What do you want to harvest first?” Doctor Thompkins laughs, a high, hideous sound. “His brain?”_

_“Oh nothing that redundant.”_

_Oswald meets his gaze in the mirror and his eyes are cold. Unrecognisable._

_“I just want his heart.”_

 

//// 

 

The action of waking takes a disconcertingly long time. Ed is conscious of his body, can feel his limbs curled inwards, arms wrapped tightly around his knees; moreover, he is painfully aware of the dull throbbing in his abdomen, each slow pulse of his heart sending a wave of nausea through his stomach.

He is conscious. Yet he cannot move. 

There is a weight on his chest. Heavy. Oppressive. It feels like he is being crushed, compressed against the mattress and he isn’t sure how to breathe, whether it is even possible. Insects crawl beneath his skin, pins and needles prick across every inch of his exposed flesh and he cannot fight his way out of this. 

Ed is a prisoner within his own body and he _hates_ it. 

He isn’t sure how long it takes for him to emerge out of this hellish nightmare state, trapped beneath the weight of his own body as flickering sensations of metal and thread sew his lips firmly shut. There is no way to struggle out of this horrific paralysis, no matter how much his mind screams at him. All Ed can do is wait. 

So he waits. He rides out the nausea and claustrophobic compression and asphyxiation, slowly floating out of this black ichor and tar which shackle him to sleep.

Finally the weight lessens just enough to allow breath to enter his lungs and Ed gasps, eyes fluttering open.

“ _Oswald_ ,” is the first word torn out of him, voice ragged and hoarse but he doesn’t care, it doesn’t matter, nothing matters, not now, not anymore and he forces his arm to move, blindly reaching for the body which he knows will be there- 

But there is nothing. 

Darkness descends as Ed’s eyes snap shut, an acute pain piercing through his body.

Oswald is gone.

This is it. Every fear of the last week, every agonising second of heart-stopping dread and anxiety and terror has lead to this.The one inevitable reality has finally come to pass and Ed cannot breathe properly, cannot bear to open his eyes, cannot bring himself to think of anything other than the horrible, excruciating truth that Oswald is gone Oswald is _gone Oswald is gone Oswald is gone…_

Ed has no idea how long he stays like that, the world white noise buried far beneath the avalanche of that one thought, repeating over and over, before he forces himself back to himself. The grim mental determination which has characterised his entire life comes sharply back into focus as he pulls himself back from the edge of oblivion.

_focus Ed do not let this destroy you are stronger than this you are better than this Oswald believed you were better than this do not dare destroy yourself not now not yet not ever Ed you are better you will be better just breathe focus **focus**_

Ed shivers. The room feels too cold, the sweat coating his body even cooler where the sheet doesn’t cover him. 

With his eyes closed he can still imagine that Oswald is here. His scent is everywhere, stronger than he’s ever experienced before - it is all encompassing, a sea which Ed floats adrift in, lost, shipwrecked, slowly sinking deep beneath the waves and he cannot bring himself to care. It is dizzying and addictive and so terrifyingly familiar it almost stops Ed breathing. 

As soon as he opens his eyes again Ed will have to come back to reality. Come back to the reality that Oswald had controlled him and kissed him and rejected him and left him. Come back to the truth that _Oswald isn’t here._

He doesn’t want to accept that. Not yet. Just five more minutes... 

He stays curled in on himself for a while, resisting the tempting tendrils of sleep which threaten to drag him back under. Instead, he just breathes, in, out, in, out, his heartbeat too loud and too slow in his ears. 

_Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum._

Slowly memories of yesterday begin to flicker behind his eyelids without his permission, fresh and cutting. They sputter into life, like a record played backwards, and everything feels wrong looking back: Oswald departing into the bathroom only to emerge a different person, the King of Gotham, a single suit creating a transformation just as powerful and stunning as Ed’s shifts between skin and fur. The shared delight of whispered secrets, of intimacy more intoxicating than alcohol. The frozen whip of influence, of Oswald’s will ensnaring him, the scrape of nails against his flesh and teeth. And then... 

Ed’s stomach twists, heat pooling in his veins as he remembers. 

It is...confusing, looking back. The fear of losing control has always been so fierce in him it has made him sick - the paranoia consistently present that he would lose his grip on the leash he must have over himself all the time, lest he take a knife and stab, thrust, carve away like he did with Officer Doughtery… 

To lose control would be to lose himself. And yet, all it took were a few hushed words falling from Oswald’s lips and the darkness dancing in his eyes for that fear to be utterly obliterated, as if it had never existed at all.

_Do it again._

Ed has no idea where that sudden desire had come from. The desire to be controlled, possessed, owned. It had burned his veins, just as the paradoxical desire for Oswald to drink from him had.

 _Why isn’t Oswald here?_ That they should be apart now feels so horrifically, intrinsically wrong. Especially now he knows exactly what Oswald tastes like, feels like, sounds like, so close, so agonisingly close and he should be here, sharing all of the breathless pain and excitement, they should be tasting each other again right now, licking their wounds and slinking inside, devouring and being devoured, immolating and eviscerating, losing and finding themselves over and over and over...

But instead the apartment is cold. Too cold. 

And Ed is alone. 

Eyes flashing open, Ed forces himself to sit up, even as the pain in his abdomen licks fire up his skin. Ed ignores it, knowing he needs to escape from the memories of last night which are too bright in his head, too loud and glaring and dizzying and heart shatteringly beautiful that if he thinks on them for any longer he will go completely insane. The scent of Oswald is so strong on the sheets that it is too tempting to pretend and get lost in that oblivion of fantasy. 

No. It is time to face the truth. 

_Oswald didn’t want you._

A rush of nausea surges in Ed’s stomach so sudden he genuinely thinks he is about to throw up. It passes after a few moments but that sickening weight in his gut doesn’t lift. Oswald didn’t want you _Oswald didn’t want you **Oswald didn’t want you** _

Ed puts his head in his hands and groans. 

There had been too much. Oswald with his beaming smile, his unchecked laugh, his hands in his hair, pulling, tugging, demanding. Ed had been electrified, out of breath with euphoria that _he_ was the one making Oswald kiss like that, bite like that, whimper like that. 

And then, somehow, he'd ruined everything. 

The Beast had been so angry, flung across the floor with the taste of his own blood in his mouth. Was it really any surprise it had been angry enough to break its bars and chains and take over once again?

Just as Ed had surrendered his free will to Oswald, so too had he lost his control of the Beast. It was furious, rejected, denied what it wanted. Needed. All of that carnal rage had been directed at Oswald and Ed’s quickly disappearing rationality had realised in a terrifying split-second that he wouldn’t have been able to control it. Reason had been disappearing like sand in an hourglass and he had been about to hurt Oswald. He could feel it.

So he’d run. Run as fast as possible, first on two legs, then on four. Everything was shifting shadows around him and he could feel, hear, smell too much. Rage. Fury. Bloodlust. 

Just like losing Kristen all over again, but worse. So much worse...

He thinks he killed someone, on some street, hidden in some alley. He can barely remember anything, doesn't even know how long that awful imprisonment had lasted. 

However, he can remember the pain, sharp, piercing in his underbelly. Whoever or whatever he’d fought hadn't gone without a fight. Typical.

Ed has no clue how he made it back to the flat. The last thing he can remember is crawling across the bed to Oswald, human once more, and burying himself in the man’s scent. Oswald had smelled like home and he was asleep almost instantly, his bones feeling shattered beneath his skin. He remembers being held. Hands in his hair, once so punishing, turned soft and gentle. 

The thought of it makes him want to sob.

_Oswald, what did I do? What did I do wrong? Please, I can’t bear this, I don’t understand, Oswald, why didn’t you want me?_

Dragging himself out of his spiralling thoughts, Ed notes distantly that it is raining. The storm from that evening must have broken in the night. Droplets patter against the metal of the fire escape, insistent.

Water. He needs water. His throat is like gravel and water would help, wouldn’t it? Pulling the sheet around him as a makeshift covering (he is too drained to even attempt to pick out clothes just now), he stands shakily. That is when he sees it. 

Across the room, on the kitchen counter, lies a note. And Ed knows exactly what it will say.

“Oh dear,” he whispers into the empty room, sudden dread frozen and icy in his veins.

He approaches it, terror a living thing in his chest because this is it, this is where he learns without a shadow of doubt that he has damned himself to loneliness forever, that he has lost himself the most important, treasured mind he has ever encountered.

With trepidation he scans the hastily written words, black ink scrawled across the page.

 

_Dear Ed,_

_I must apologise for my absence - an opportunity has arisen regarding Galavan and I am afraid if I do not act tonight it may never come again._

_My sincerest apologies for last night. I was not thinking clearly, nor I think were you. I had not expected things to be this complicated._

_Rest and recover. I will return as soon as possible._

_Yours faithfully,_

_Oswald_

 

Ed has to re-read it a good four times before the message of the note even comes close to sinking in. The letters are shaky, as if the writer had been unable to keep his hand steady as he wrote. Oswald’s name is smudged, as if his sleeve had smeared it in his haste.

_‘I will return’_

It is all Ed can see. Three words which burn themselves into his retina as the relief thaws his veins and warms his frozen lungs. Maybe, just maybe, there is a chance. There is hope. He can still fix this.

Oswald is coming back.

_BRRRRRRRRRRRRRR_

Ed snaps his head to the side, chest bursting in panic and adrenaline and instantly his gaze zeroes in on his alarm, flashing in huge red numbers, 06:15. 

The GCPD. Work. _The world does not stop turning just because yours has shattered, Edward._

With little remorse Ed silences the shrill, offensive noise with a slam of his fist. Oddly enough the shock of the alarm has somehow shrugged off any lingering shackles of sleep and his body feels alert for this first time since waking. Grogginess gone, Ed breathes slowly in an attempt to slow his frantic heart rate.

Oswald is coming back. He just needs to wait. And trust him.

Ed takes another settling breath. _Trust Oswald..._ He can do that. 

He has to. 

Slipping back into his old ( _human_ , he thinks bitterly) routine in an effort to distract himself, Ed heads to the bathroom, set on a shower; afterall he is, rather disgustingly, covered in sweat and he needs to properly examine this wound. _It will also mean losing Oswald’s scent on you…_ Ed has to consciously battle to ignore that particular voice.

Discarding the sheet (which now he examines it closer is actually speckled with blood - his, he presumes) he showers, enjoying the almost scalding temperature of the water as it batters his skin. Keeping it as brief as possible he dries, wrapping a towel around his waist and steps towards the mirror. Now for the fun bit.

With tentative fingers he examines the wound which, in this body, cuts jaggedly across his abdomen. Interesting. He’s never really experimented with how wounds are affected between his different forms, whether the act of transforming does more to heal his body or just tear it open. It would appear it leans more towards the former.

The skin looks raw around it, red. But it does not need stitches and he can only trust that Oswald prevented any infection setting in.

_It seems you also take to saving my life, Mr Penguin._

However, as Ed stares at the mirror his gaze catches something else. Another set of marks, low on his hips, that he does not recognise. Frowning he peers closer...

_You want to know what I can do?_

Fingerprints, Oswald’s fingerprints, buried into his skin, unforgiving. Ed cannot tear his eyes away from them.

_I could make you do anything for me._

Never would he have thought he would enjoy someone exerting dominance over him, someone marking him as theirs. After so long, desiring authority and power and respect this should seem an oddly retroactive mindset... 

_I could make you want anything, do anything, give anything._

And yet, Oswald comes into the picture and suddenly he _wants_ to be marked, _wants_ to be controlled, _wants_ to be claimed completely and utterly as his. These bruises are not marks of shame, but of pride. Gingerly Ed traces them with his fingers. Even the gentlest ghost of contact sends sparks through his skin. 

_Shall I show you?_

Releasing a shaky breath Ed snatches his fingers away, turning to leave. He can no longer afford these thoughts. Not until he knows where he stands with Oswald. To continue would be torture.

No, instead he only has to wait, Oswald said he would return, he promised, Ed just has to trust and wait and-

“This is quite the mess you’ve made, isn’t it?” 

_No. Not possible..._

Ed whirls around, reeling as if he has just been punched, refusing to believe it and yet… His eyes land immediately on the mirror, on the vision of a man he knows all too well. 

_But it’s not a man, is it?_

“ _You,_ ” Ed breathes, that old, familiar sinking dread curling in his chest. 

The Beast tilts his head to the side, his distorted reflection straightening a little in the mirror. It is wearing a suit Ed does not recognise, black and sleek with a green waistcoat underneath. The glasses are gone, its eyes cold and icy as they pierce into him with the force of shards of glass. Still, just as aloof and alive as the first time he had seen it, staring straight back through a mirror in Maison de la Mort, unlocked by Oswald’s presence alone.

“An astute observation, Edward.” The distorted mouth cracks, shattering into a sneer. “It is indeed _you.”_

The reverberation its voice carries in his ears is all it takes for Ed’s mind to snap to attention, any shock and fear quickly hardening into anger. Straightening his spine to match his reflection, Ed crosses his arms. 

“I thought you’d gone.” 

The Beast scoffs, the noise an echoing growl. “Honestly, Edward, I thought we’d moved past this. I can’t ‘go’ when I’m part of you.” 

Ed feels his jaw tighten. Damn semantics. “You know exactly what I mean. I made my peace with you a long time ago now and you deciding to interrupt my life again now is a redundant waste of time and energy-” 

“Oh please.” Ed’s vision is narrowing, the edges of the room darkening as shadows lick up against the floor and walls like tongues of flames. With everything disappearing around him the Beast seems so much taller, so much stronger, so much more everything he wants to be and he cannot begin to tear his gaze away. “You’re right back where you started, back with accepting rejection, letting what you want slip away. I’m not just going to watch you ruin my hard work.” 

Ed grits his teeth, desperately trying to wrench himself away from staring at this beautifully corrupt version of himself. “I don't have to listen to this.” 

“I'm not leaving.” 

“Well he has!” The words are torn from his lips against his volition. They splinter into pieces, biting into his skin as the Beast stares at him through the dark and he doesn’t have the strength to try and stop them. “For all you've given me you almost lost me him. I was ready to hurt Oswald last night, ready to kill him because of your rage, your aggression, your damn possessiveness. This is _not_ my fault.” 

A dangerous light glints in the Beast’s pupils, static crackling across his skin and the rest of the world is covered in darkness, all that exists is this creature, this animal, this monster-

“I thought we’d gotten over trying to label the two of us as separate beings.” A dark web of veins pulse viciously against the marble skin of the creature’s neck. “How are you supposed to teach Oswald to accept the truth of what he is if you can't do the same for yourself?” 

“I have accepted it.” 

The Beast arches an eyebrow. “Have you?” 

The silence is so thick Ed is worried he might choke on it. One reflection stares back at the other and they are caught in this never-ending battle, the world stuttering and fragmenting around them, reality collapsing and collapsing again until the darkness pounding in his head is all he can breathe. 

“What is he to you, Edward?” 

The Beast’s voice is quieter than Ed had expected. Whispers reach out across the void, glistening with secrets and lies and truths which he will never be able to even begin to interpret. 

Ed opens his mouth to answer but his voice is stolen by the darkness. 

The Beast narrows his eyes and this time its voice is louder, sharper and Ed’s bones quake with it. “What is he to you?” 

He takes in a breath again to answer but there are no words, the empty oblivion of not-knowing so heavy on his tongue and he hates it. 

Ed doesn’t know. 

And he hates not knowing. 

So he thinks. 

Oswald is a man. A monster. A mentor. An accomplice. A partner. A companion. A lover. An equal. He is a week old acquaintance and a friend of greater depth than he had ever thought possible. Their relationship is terrifyingly new, still teetering in its infancy, yet somehow more meaningful and more ancient than any relationship he has ever had. 

He hates Oswald, and longs for him. Despises and desires. Delights in the horrific monster he glimpses in every flash of teeth and thunderous growl, yearns for the warm humanity he catches in each gentle caress and fragile laugh. 

Oswald is complex and conflicting, a paradox which should never exist. He is dead, cold, broken, yet Ed has not known life before him, not truly known heat which can consume all else before him, never felt fully whole before him. 

Oswald is the taste of red wine and blood, of spice and acidity. He is the smell of freshly pressed suits and rose water, of the salt of the sea and the earth of the forest. He is the sound of crashing waves and the slice of metal, of roaring gunfire and the silence of a heartbeat Ed will never hear. 

Oswald is the hand in his fur, the teeth in his neck, the eyes in his mind which never leave him, never look away, never give him rest. 

Oswald is his. 

Oswald is everything. 

_What is he to you?_

Ed breathes in slowly, mentally curses the limits of pathetic human language and steadies himself.

“He’s important.” 

The Beast’s expression does not change. The air crackles and Ed feels unbelievably exposed, like his insides have been scooped out of their proper places and put on display for the world. 

“Do not mess this up, Edward.” 

Ed squares his shoulders, a dull feeling of pride skitting over his skin - it feels as if he has just passed a test. “I won’t.” 

“It would be a shame if I had to take over your body again-” 

“Do not dare.” He cannot keep the venom from his voice. “I can’t lose him like Kristen. I refuse to.” 

The Beast frowns a little, cocking its head to the side and Ed feels himself go cold under the weight of those inhuman eyes.

“If you still compare him to Kristen then you already have,” it murmurs.

The mirror flickers, darkness clouding it for a moment as his vision swims in that old, familiar way...

And it is just him, staring back. 

Shaking ever so slightly as exhaustion hits his body like a gunshot, he makes his way back to the main room. Dressing, Ed’s fingers stumble buttoning up a checkered green shirt and he bites down on the sudden urge to storm back into the bathroom and smash that damn mirror into pieces. _No point. It can visit you just as easily in other ways._

After changing, Ed makes the bed, feeling proud that he only returns to bury his head on the pillow and breathe in Oswald’s scent for another two minutes.

Maybe it’s because of the unexpected brush with his other self, or maybe it’s because the realisation of quite how important Oswald is to him has shaken him far more than he would like to admit, he can’t be certain...However, as he waits for Oswald to keep his promise Ed finds himself opening up the bedside drawer. 

_I have a frame but no pictures, poles yet I do not stand. What am I?_

As carefully as he can, Ed cradles Miss Kringle’s glasses between his hands.

They seem so small now. So fragile.

When he returned home from the GCPD on that night where the world had been saturated in darkness and everything seemed born again, he’d been overjoyed to find Miss Kringle’s spectacles still on his bed. Having them, keeping them felt right, as if it somehow solidified his transformation.

There is still that old gratitude, nestled in his chest when he thinks of Kristen. After all, it was because of her that he was finally able to realise who he was. Who he had always been. 

Still, lingering affection aside, Ed knows he should have destroyed these glasses as soon as Doctor Thompkins started her insipid line of questioning days ago. But the overwhelming, desperate fear of those days, not knowing whether Oswald could be saved, not knowing if he would allow himself to be, had drowned out all rationality and he hadn’t even considered the possibility of being _caught_ for Kristen’s death. 

Thinking back, all of Ed’s rationality had evaporated the moment he laid eyes on Oswald in that motorvan. 

_If you still compare him to Kristen…_ The Beast’s threat hangs over his neck like chains and he feels his fingers twitching, tightening. 

He owes Kristen much, that is true, but she had only been the prologue to the true story, the foreword before the first chapter could begin. She had handed him the keys but Oswald had shown him what they could unlock, guided him through the mysteries and treasures this new life could promise him. He is grateful for Kristen, but he _burns_ for Oswald.

Even if Oswald doesn’t want him as he thought he had.

Fingers clenching, Ed watches in detached interest as the glasses crumple in his hand, crushed into broken pieces. A parody of what they had once been. He lets them fall into the waste bin, the light clattering they make final and clanging in his ears. 

Ed breathes in slowly through his nose as something cold creeps up his neck. 

“Goodbye Miss Kringle.”

He turns to watch the grey drizzle of rain, Gotham’s tears inching slowly down the glass, and wonders what else he would destroy of himself if it meant Oswald would want him.

 

//// 

 

It is 06:54 when Ed hears footsteps.

Immediately he is standing, crossing to the door because the sounds which echo down the corridor are odd, uneven, limping. Ed would recognise that gait anywhere.

Heart beating quicker, he slides it open without a moment’s hesitation.

His vision immediately tunnels to the man in front of him, still dressed in the now slightly crumpled suit from the night before, hair slicked back from rain. Relief floods him as Ed stares back into those icy blue eyes, head feeling too light for his body. _You came back you kept your promise you didn’t leave you haven’t gone you came back you came back thank you thank you thank you-_

“Gabe, get him on the bed.” 

Ed’s heart drops as his vision widens and he sees, behind Oswald, a large man in a leather jacket with a fairly obvious holster seated on his hips. Over his shoulder is slung a body. At that present moment Ed is not sure whether it is alive or dead. 

Oswald breaks eye contact with Ed, something hard shuttering down like a visible wall in those steel depths, and brushes past him, forcing Ed to step back. Before he has time to think properly the other man has already entered and is starting to maneuver the body off his back and- 

Oh this cannot be happening. 

Jim Gordon is being lowered onto his bed.

Jim _fucking_ Gordon. 

“His pulse is still fine, boss,” the large man grumbles out in a gravelly voice, "a bit battered, but he'll live." 

Ed curls his fists together, his eyes unable to move from the sight of _Jim Gordon_ , lying on _his_ bed, in exactly the same space where Oswald had been barely a few hours ago. His scent will be overshadowing Oswald’s, every second spent there will be removing possibly the last link Ed has to the most important man in existence and what the hell does Oswald think he’s doing, presuming that he can just bring him in here, come back with others when it should just be them- 

"Make sure his head is supported. Let's try and minimise the injuries where possible." Oswald's gaze flicks analytically down the length of Jim's body, head cocked slightly as he assesses in exactly the same way he has looked at Ed to ensure his health. Glancing over Ed notes, with a rush of bitter reproach, that there is mud on Jim’s boots. And he’d only just done the laundry.

"Mr Penguin," Ed forces out, the consonants clipped, as he slams the door closed. 

The lock is broken from last night when he’d ripped it off.

Oswald's eyes flicker back to Ed's with a casual ease, as if he had forgotten Ed was even in the room. Just the thought of that makes something in the back of his head snap in two. _Why won’t you look at me like I mean something?_

"Yes, Ed?" 

Ed clasps his hands tightly behind his back, not sure of his ability to prevent himself from strangling Detective Gordon where he sleeps. "Would you be so kind as to explain what is going on?" 

It is a miracle he doesn't all out spit the words, instead keeping his simmering frustration carefully buried under a layer of polite confusion.

The other man - Gabe, Oswald called him - casts a curious glance between the two of them. The sweat gathering on his creased forehead just screams human, which is likely why he quickly turns his attention back to the unconscious detective, evidently concluding that Ed is not a threat. _Oh how wrong you foolish creatures can be..._

Oswald narrows his eyes a little but doesn’t react in any other way. "Gabe here contacted me last night having located Galavan." 

Oswald must have given him Ed's address somehow. The thought smarts a little; of course he had known Oswald's stay in his apartment was always going to be temporary, but this is still a pointed, painful reminder.

Then a thought goes through him like ice. Last night... Had it all only been a distraction so Oswald could slip away? Had it just been the culmination of one long misdirection the Penguin is infamous for? Had it meant _nothing_?

Ed squares his back and Oswald seems to read something in his expression change, tensing ever so slightly.

"And why is Detective Gordon currently in my apartment?" The words fall light and sharp, but not openly aggressively, not yet at least. 

Oswald’s eyes flick back to the unconscious man, gaze lingering for a moment before he answers. "We were too late for Galavan but found Jim just before his execution. He was unbelievably lucky."

Ed sniffs the air and is suddenly disgusted to find that Jim’s scent is not only in his apartment but it is also cloying around Oswald. Ever so faint, yet still there.

"You saved his life?" Ed’s stomach feels scooped out. 

"Is that so difficult to believe, _friend?"_

There is something warning in Oswald's tone, almost chiding but the use of that word sends anger like a whirlwind through Ed’s blood. It is as if the last week has been erased, the slate wiped clean and Ed cannot stop himself from fearing that this has all been one long trick, that Oswald has been playing him from the start and it _terrifies_ him. 

Unable to stop himself, Ed steps forward and he can feel both men in the room stiffen.

“And you thought you should bring him _here_?” Ed bites out, fear and rage fusing headily in his lungs.

Oswald narrows his eyes as he tilts his head up. He looks so different to the man Ed has cared for this last week. There is such unapproachable distance in his expression, such authority which just demands respect and attention in every curve of his lips. The hope from earlier is being smothered, suffocated and he cannot bear it, cannot understand, why won’t Oswald explain what the hell is going on-

“You’re standing too close.”

The words sting like a slap to the face. Ed cannot breathe for a moment, the warning such a deliberate put down, intended to force him back into a role he played at their first meeting all those months ago. 

Well, _fuck_ that.

“No, actually, I’m not,” Ed grinds out, expression hardening as he bites down on the instinctual rage this whole situation has stirred in him. That Oswald’s _dismissal_ has stirred in him.

Something flickers behind Oswald's eyes and he watches a reflected anger flare up in his stormcloud irises, matching Ed's own. Silence beats out between them with every pulse of Ed’s heart as he waits for Oswald’s inevitable retaliation.

_Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum..._

"Gabe, give us the room."

Ed does not even bother watching the lackey leave, his attention so fixed on Oswald, the man who is all that matters, all that is important, all that Ed cares about- 

The door clicks shut and Oswald rounds on him, fire in his eyes.

" _Never_ question me in front of my men," he spits, voice laced in a growl, "I've killed people for less than that. You do not get to undermine my authority-" 

"I’m not one of your 'men' you can order around," Ed bites back under his breath. In the now almost empty room he is suddenly very aware of Jim Gordon who, for all he knows, could be feigning sleep and attempts to keep his voice lowered. "You can’t just drop me off when you feel like it and then waltz back in with _Jim Gordon-"_

"I can do whatever the hell I like." Oswald is furious, Ed can smell it. Every pheromone in his body is screaming confrontation and he steps even closer, back drawn up tall. Ed doesn't give a damn, his veins buzzing with adrenaline as his mind shutters back to that first night, Oswald’s hand wrapped around his neck, nails digging in as he murdered him. _Just try me, Oswald. Just try me...._

“You may be able to treat your other lackeys like _dogs,”_ he spits out the word, black and foul on his tongue, “but you _cannot_ do that to me.”

Oswald stares at him for a moment, unblinking, before a sneer twists his thin lips into something cruel. “If you think last night gives you some special privilege-”

Ed scoffs. “Obviously not.” He finds a similar sneer settling on his face. “You made your feelings _quite_ clear.”

_It was all a trick wasn’t it, all a twisted, masterful piece of manipulation, get under my skin only to rip me open from the inside for entertainment and leave as soon as it suits you, well I won’t allow it, I won’t let you do this to me, you can’t do this to me-_

“Then you know I don’t answer to you.” Immediately Ed’s thoughts ricochet back to when Oswald had uttered those exact same words last night, pressed up against the counter, seconds before he’d tasted him. It sends a shock of furious, agonising heat through his body and Ed hates that even now, fighting, he still _wants_ this man so badly.

_Change tactics. Don’t let him know. He can’t know he can’t know he can’t-_

“I knew you were only interested in getting your revenge on Galavan, but even then I thought you were smarter than this.” Oswald’s pupils dilate in rage as Ed’s words slice through the ever diminishing space between them. “Saving a detective’s life, bringing him back here-”

“Jim wants to kill Galavan too,” Oswald snaps, voice like brittle shards of stone, cutting and breaking with every syllable, “He has information. I need him-” 

“You don't need him. You don't need anyone,” Ed snarls and is amazed to find the words twisted by bitterness, not anger. _You don’t even need me._ Something flickers behind Oswald’s eyes but is gone too fast for Ed to catch it. 

“Galavan is going to die, tonight, and, like it or not, Jim Gordon is an ally of immense worth. Having him here is worth the risk.”

Ed steps forward, once again too close to Oswald, his scent filling his lungs totally and he’s choking. They are so close to pushing past breaking point, crossing a line they have never dared to test this far before, verging on the edge of a precipice and seconds away from toppling over headfirst. _Please Oswald, I just want you to see, why can’t you see this, why won’t you listen, why don’t you want me-_

“Why can’t you just use me?”

Oswald’s eyes widen in surprise before frustration darkens them again. "That’s not-" 

Ed cuts off Oswald’s dismissal, refusing to be ignored any longer. "I'm stronger, faster, smarter. It would take Galavan by surprise, whereas he’ll be expecting Gordon. I am an asset whereas he nothing more than a liability.” 

“You have no idea what you’re even asking-”

_Why can’t we be together in this Oswald, just this, why won’t you let us be equals, why must your stubborn arrogance sit between us why can’t you see that we are made for each other why-_

“Just let me help you-” 

“No.” The word is final and inside Ed is roaring, snarling, a tornado out of control. 

“Why?!” 

And just like Ed snaps, so too does Oswald, words splintering like a bullet on wood.

“Because, _Ed_ , I'm not about to risk exposing who you are to both the GCPD and the man who killed my mother. Galavan has already taken too much and I am not about to lose you to him as well. Jim is expendable and you, my friend, are _anything but.”_

Ed feels like the floor has been swept out from under him and he is falling, falling so fast and he is about to impact any second. _Oswald doesn’t want me hurt. Oswald doesn’t think I’m expendable._

_Oswald doesn’t want to lose me..._

“So, there.” Oswald looks out of breath and says the words rather lamely. Ed’s jaw hangs open and it takes him far too long to shut it. 

His heart pounds wildly against his ribcage as he thoughts pinwheel out of control too quickly for him to follow. There is so much he needs to say. So much and he doesn’t know where to even begin. He opens his mouth, no clue what words are about to tumble from his lips when-

Jim groans, the sound muted, under his breath.

Both of them immediately snap their heads in his direction, eyes trained on the slightly shifting body of James Gordon. It feels as if the entire world holds its breath as they wait, wait for him to wake and see them and then Ed will have lost any chance to say the things which he _needs_ to before this all over.

But, nothing. Jim remains unconscious, body still limp on the covers.

Ed lets out a sigh, attention slinking back to Oswald. As their eyes meet they both seem to simultaneously realise how close they are standing, how easy it would be to just lean forward, allow gravity to do its work and-

Oswald steps back and Ed feels his abdomen flare in pain. He watches as the other man begins to massage his temple with thumb and forefinger, the smell of anger draining away like poison from a wound. Ed’s eyes follow the movement and catch what he had before overlooked in the rush of seeing Oswald again for the first time - there is blood on Oswald's knuckles. And he recognises that scent... 

Jim.

The realisation has Ed feeling winded all over again. Had Oswald...beaten Jim? Why would he do that? 

“You are the only reason I'm still standing here,” Oswald’s voice is quiet, almost pleading as if all of the aggression from earlier has been beaten out of him, “that I'm able to have my revenge at all. I don’t want to fight you over this. Over anything. Please.” 

Oswald looks at him and Ed is astounded by the vulnerability he sees. He may not even realise he’s doing it but Oswald is extending his neck upwards, out, a symbol of total trust. It is terrifying. 

And yet, even that isn’t enough to quell this beating panic. Still his thoughts come round in one giant, vicious, bitter, hurt cycle because _if you think of me like that then why did you push me away?_

“Excuse me.” 

He feels Oswald’s eyes on him like bullet holes in his head. Distantly he hears the slide of the door and a whispered, “Gabe, watch Gordon.” He ignores it and continues walking.

Ed stalks to the bathroom, hands shaking. He needs space. He cannot think clearly with all of this emotion racing through him, clouding his senses as everything is reduced to animalistic carnality and fear and want. He needs to be able to think about this, _damnit._

_How humiliating, to be jealous of a human, and Jim Gordon at that. How pathetic can you be?_

He braces himself on the basin, glaring at his reflection opposite, just daring the Beast to come out and taunt him. But there is nothing. Just himself. 

Ed hears the door click to his side. _Can’t you leave me in peace for only a minute, Oswald?_ He pinches his eyes closed, determined not to look at him, and forces himself to breathe.

“Ed. Are-” Oswald goes quiet for a few seconds. All of the confrontation and aggression from earlier has gone completely, replaced by a stunning hesitancy. Still Ed does not look at him. “Are you alright?” 

“Peachy.” 

“I meant,” Oswald swallows and Ed isn’t sure he has ever heard him sound so unsure, “when you came back...You were hurt-”

“I’m _fine.”_

He can see the small, shadowy figure in his peripheral fidget a bit. 

“We need to talk about last night. Before- Before we run out of time." 

Ed doesn't have nearly enough willpower to hold back the growl. Something in his chest tightens as he catches Oswald flinching slightly at the sound. 

“You want to talk. Then talk.” 

“I- I wanted to apologise.” Ed feels his jaw hang loose, surprise hot and uncomfortable and he finally turns to look at this impossible, unbelievable man. “I took a great liberty with your free will last night, I took it too far, I almost-” Oswald falters for a moment. “It was no way to repay you after all you've done for me. Nor was that shouting match.” 

He cannot be hearing this. 

“You- you're _apologising?”_

Oswald ducks his head. “Yes. It should never have happened.” 

Ed feels sick. “I see.” 

Oswald looks remarkably uncomfortable. “Very well then. I’m glad you’re okay, Ed. if you’d been hurt last night, because of my selfishness-” Oswald blinks viciously, hands tightening into fists. “I’m sorry. And that is all that can be said.”

He turns to go and everything in Ed’s body screams at the sight, don’t go, _don’t go not again no no no nononono_

“Didn't you want to, then?” Oswald freezes, Ed can see the muscles in his neck going tight. 

“I did.” Oswald’s voice is whisper thin. “Desperately. And that is why I should never have...projected my desires onto you.” 

Ed’s head is whipped to side in a blistering second. _What?_

“You think those weren't my feelings?”

Oswald blinks at him, body hunched inwards ever so slightly, as if protecting himself. “How could they have been? I-” Oswald’s face contorts and he spits out the word like venom, “I _forced_ you, _controlled_ you. I don’t blame you for hating me.”

 _Oswald thinks I hate him._ Ed is suddenly gripped by the mad desire to laugh. Finally the pieces have fallen together in his mind and he can suddenly understand what the hell happened last night. Why Oswald had been so afraid. Why he has been so removed since he’d first re-entered his apartment. It hadn’t been out of disinterest or apathy.

It had been out of _guilt._

“You pushed me away,” Ed murmurs. Still that hurts, a tight pain deep in his stomach.

Oswald swallows, eyes dropping from Ed’s, almost in shame. “I shouldn’t have let it get that far.” His fists begin to clench. Every word he says catches, as if he cannot get them right. “It was too intense: the suit, alcohol, music… I hadn’t even known, this last year that I would ever- that I could even… But then you made me feel so, so _warm_ for the first time and I- I couldn’t-”

Ed feels a sudden, deep pulse of heat low in his gut as suddenly he realises - Oswald hasn’t been with anyone else. In this new life Ed is the only one who has touched Oswald like that. The only one Oswald has even wanted to touch like that. 

He takes in a ragged breath as that sense of possessive ownership floods his system, headier than any drug in existence.

Oswald belongs to _him._

“I lost control and it terrified me, Ed. I couldn’t- I had to stop it. Before I let myself go any further.”

 _Alright. Enough is enough._ Ed stands straighter, readying himself to have to fight for this, harder than he’s fought for anything. “Mr Penguin, I think you’ll find it was _me_ who provoked _you.”_

Oswald’s steel blue eyes flash up to meet his and there is a strange, guarded quality to them.

“That doesn’t change anything-”

“Yes it does.” Ed takes a step forward, noticing how immediately Oswald steps back, so he is against the door. The sight sends a short thrill through his system. “I _encouraged_ you to influence me.”

Oswald’s mouth works for a few moments without words, as if he is too shocked to know what to say. There is so much disgust in his voice when he does finally speak. “Ed, I made you _kneel.”_

“And I _liked it,”_ Ed bites back.

The silence between them is thick and oppressive as Oswald searches Ed’s eyes, his pupils dark and frantic. Every tick of the clock is another closer to Jim’s awakening. And then, everything will go so quickly. He needs to move. Now. 

“You took away my free will the moment I first saw you.” Ed’s voice is low but intense. “I didn't want to feel like this Oswald, but I do. I can't fight it anymore than what I am. And, for the record, I really don’t hate you.” 

Oswald looks winded. “But-”

“Are you influencing me now?” Ed takes another step closer, the air between them beginning to buzz in that electric way it had the night before. They are so close now, so agonisingly close... 

“No,” Oswald whispers, voice hoarse.

“Well then, let me make this very clear,” Ed breathes out slowly as he leans forward, “how could you _ever_ think that _I don’t want you?”_

And then Ed is sinking forward, whole body giving into that magnetic pull which surrounds Oswald and the world falls away into oblivion, finally. _Finally._ The unbelievable rightness Ed had felt the night before slices through his thoughts again and he is lost, so totally and utterly lost and drowning and _free._

The kiss is in no way tentative. The instant Ed’s lips find Oswald’s it is like all resistance leaves the other man and his mouth opens up, so right, so perfect. Ed growls. A sudden desperation grips him as he remembers how there is no time, he cannot let this be lingering when every second is precious and slipping _slipping._ Ripping away from Oswald, Ed leans down, pressing his nose to the other’s throat and kisses his Adam’s apple, his neck, the point his pulse should be beating away under Ed’s touch and his alone. 

“You pushed me away,” he chokes out and his voice breaks, pain bleeding into the words, “how could you do that to me, Oswald?”

“I’m- I’m sorry,” Oswald gasps out as his hands spasm across Ed’s back, fingers clutching at his shirt.

 _Not good enough._ Ed growls again, the noise visceral and ugly, and hot breaths lap Oswald’s skin as desperation takes him, the second hand in his mind hammering inside his skull. His hands fumble they are moving so quickly as he tries to map out the other’s body, starting with his neck, shoulders, chest, stomach, all the while kissing and sucking and licking against whatever skin his mouth can find. 

“Ed…” In the back of his mind he is sure he hears Oswald’s voice but it is far away, distant and nothing is more important than this, nothing.

He groans as his fingers begin to unlace shirt buttons, one by one, mind frantically skipping ahead of itself as he feels Oswald jolt a little under his touch. Beneath his skin beats the animalistic need to rub his scent back into Oswald’s, remove any trace of Jim, claim Oswald back as _his._

“Ed-" 

_I need this, have been waiting for this, am so afraid I'm going to lose this, Oswald please you don't understand you don't know what it's like to be this scared this hungry this alone-_

Crack. 

The world stops spinning as Ed finds his back against something solid, gazing down into dark, roaring eyes. Wait. Hadn't _he_ been the one pressing Oswald against the wall just a second ago? 

_“Ed.”_ The sheer amount of emotion and depth in one syllable makes Ed stop, snaps him back to the present, quiets that awful ticking clock in his brain. “I know, alright? I know, just- just slow down.” 

Ed inhales shakily. Oswald has his hands captured in his, nailed to the wall with a strength he would have to fight. 

“Okay.” He inhales again. 

Oswald looks at him for a moment longer, pupils blown wide and black, watching him carefully. Ed feels himself shudder a little as he can feel Oswald pulling him apart with the force of his gaze alone.

After far, far too long Oswald seems satisfied and finally kisses him again, pulling Ed down and reaching up at the same time. The urgency rears back again, a beating, pounding drum in the back of his head, however this time he controls it. Oswald kisses him with that same desperation, but it tastes different. He wishes he could figure out how. Oswald is so much colder than him, the sharp temperature contrast always somehow just as surprising as it had been the first time and he cannot help but shiver as his freezing fingers drag against his wrist. 

Neither Ed nor Oswald appear too experienced at this but neither seems to mind, or even notice. Instinct takes over as they just kiss and kiss and kiss, heady, open mouthed, scorching and Ed really needs to breathe but Oswald isn't letting him go. He wants to run his hands through that hair again, wants to feel all of this man splayed out beneath his touch, but those fingers are vices. He only pulls back when he has no other choice, lungs burning.

“You're cheating,” he manages, breath trembling as Oswald catches it. He swallows Ed’s exhales like they are his own. 

“That's how you win.” Oswald’s lips are smirking as he licks at the corner of Ed’s mouth. “Besides, being dead has to count for something, doesn’t it?”

Ed moans as he feels the most agonising friction of Oswald’s nails against his vein. _Not fair._ “There are so many things I want to say.” 

Oswald looks at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, he releases his hands.“Then tell me.” 

Ed watches him warily for a few seconds, muscles coiled in anticipation of some hidden move Oswald is yet to make... 

However he does nothing. Oswald just looks at him with large eyes, so dark in the harsh brightness of the room. He is letting Ed take the lead, he realises. Oswald needs to know this is coming from Ed, not him, still needs that reassurance that this is Ed’s choice. 

Well. He can do that. 

_I don't know how to lose this,_ Ed says as he threads his fingers through Oswald's hair, enjoying the tiny sounds at the back of Oswald’s throat he would never even hear if not for his painfully sensitive ears. They are the tells that Oswald is not in complete control, that Ed can make him break that iron band of control which governs his life. The thought of that just makes him bite down harder. 

_I don't know if you feel this too but you're unraveling me so easily,_ he says as the height difference gets too frustrating. Moving quickly and with the element of surprise, he picks Oswald up, fingers gripping against the undersides of his thighs as he lifts Oswald from the floor. The startled squeak of _“Ed!”_ he draws from Oswald's mouth is perhaps the best noise he's ever heard. Also the way Oswald’s arms instinctively wrap around him, fingers burying themselves into his skin so tightly he knows there will be even more bruises tomorrow, is unbelievably rewarding.

Oswald is surprisingly light, or maybe Ed is still not entirely used to his strength. Whatever the reason, he walks forward until Oswald rests atop the counter next to the basin, careful not to hurt his injured leg.

Ed allows himself a brief smile, more flash of teeth than anything else. _There. Much better._ He returns his attention to Oswald's mouth as quickly as possible. 

_It's not fair. How can you take me apart and not take me with you,_ he says as he takes Oswald’s lips beneath his teeth, tugging and biting. Oswald jolts and his monstrously sharp teeth seem to bite Ed’s lip without meaning to. The new taste and scent of iron is introduced into the beautiful mixture of pheromones between them and Oswald’s left leg hooks around Ed’s hips and drags him closer even _closer_

Ed gasps and has to break apart, heart suddenly beating too loud in his head as he struggles for breath. “I didn't...know you could- could feel like this,” he shudders out, words tumbling over themselves.

Oswald’s eyes fill with a strange glint, lips twisting viciously at the corners, scarlet with Ed’s blood. “You didn't feel this with Miss Kringle then?” 

Ed chuckles, out of breath as he kisses the tip of Oswald’s ear. “If- If I had then the Beast wouldn't have killed her.” 

Oswald suddenly stills under him and Ed tenses, immediately fearing he has done something wrong (again) and Oswald is about to shove him away just like before and he can't do that again not again he can't bear it- 

"I never asked…. How did you kill her?" 

Oswald's voice is so quiet Ed has to wonder if he's heard him right. 

"I'm sorry?" 

Oswald blinks up at him, an unreadable emotion in his dark eyes. "Did you shoot her? Stab her? Throw her down the stairs?" He licks his lips. “It’s an easy question.”

Ed swallows, sudden unease simmering low in his gut. _Why the hell does Oswald want to know this? Now?_

"I-" He takes in a steadying breath as he attempts to keep his breath even. "I strangled her." 

Oswald's eyes narrow ever so slightly and Ed finally deciphers the emotion buried in their depths - greed.

A profound, calculating greed.

"Why does it matt-" 

The word dies on his lips as he feels Oswald’s cold fingers close over his. They guide Ed’s hand up, gently placing it around the base of his throat and suddenly Ed understands.

Eyes wide and heart thundering in his chest he lets out a jagged, broken breath. 

"Go on," Oswald whispers, the grip on his hand tightening.

Ed tries to speak but his voice has been stolen.

"You can't hurt me." Oswald's voice grows in insistency. "I don't breathe. You can’t kill me."

"Oswald...."

"I want you to see me, not her."

 _Possessiveness is a trait we share it would seem…_ Ed licks his lips, gaze darting down to his hands encircling Oswald’s throat (the perfect fit, he thinks distantly). The memory of Kristen’s face, life draining away like it was never there, cracks across his mind like a whip. His hand tremors slightly against Oswald’s cool skin.

“Do it, Ed.” Oswald slowly lowers his hand from Ed’s. "For me."

Ed breathes through his nose as he slowly begins to increase the pressure. A dark light dances in Oswald's eyes, nodding slightly in encouragement and Ed can feel that animalistic fire starting to burn in his veins. He can almost hear the words he had said to Kristen that night.

_I would never do anything to hurt you. I had to kill him, because he hit you._

Oswald hisses as Ed chokes him, but he doesn't pull away. Ed keeps waiting, waiting for him to struggle, fight back, try to run from him just like Kristen did, just like he had last night, but it never happens. 

His breathing is getting faster, heavier as he realises that Oswald is letting him do this. That he isn’t going to stop him.

_Do you understand that? I did it for you._

The heat which floods his veins is so sudden and intense it is like getting hit by a truck. 

Resistance and uncertainty snapping like bones, Ed rears forward and kisses him, harsh and hard. Oswald moans out as Ed’s other hand tangles in his hair, nails scraping his skull and he kisses back, licking at the cut on his lip almost in apology. He doesn’t stop, even as Ed squeezes harder and harder, so tight that he doesn’t know if he will be able to stop himself and his body is screaming and how is it that Oswald knows exactly what he needs when he’d never realised, never seen, never known-

_I promise I’ll never do anything to hurt you ever again. I love you. I’ve loved you since the first moment that I saw you..._

And then it is too much.

Oswald makes a strangled, broken sound as Ed snatches his hand away, breathing ragged. He realises, distantly, that he hadn’t taken a breath since he started to choke Oswald. Gasping, he can almost feel the sympathy pain, burning fingerprints against his own neck.

Ed’s eyes flicker up, remembering that appalling, awful moment he had first realised that Kristen’s eyes were empty and dull and _dead_ , the second his whole life had split in two, as part of him died as she did.

But, blinking in the light which suddenly seems too bright, he sees that Oswald’s eyes are anything but dead.

“Was that...are you okay?”

Ed can barely get the words out his heart is beating so fast. Oswald’s pupils are so large, so unnaturally large that there is barely any colour left around them. He is incredibly grateful for the support of the counter at that moment.

Oswald swallows thickly and, slowly, he nods.

“Thank you,” Ed breathes, gratitude thick in his voice. Absentmindedly he finds himself running his hands gently down Oswald’s thighs, the gesture almost comforting, soothing.

As he struggles to recover his breathing Ed takes a moment to appreciate how thoroughly ruined Oswald looks. The meticulous hair and clothes which are so inherently part of the Penguin’s image are messed, Oswald’s expression completely open and vulnerable and it is the most dizzying realisation to know that he can make him look like this only because Oswald is _allowing_ him.

_But how much will you allow?_

“What do you want from me Oswald?” His voice is quiet yet nothing in it is gentle or kind.

Oswald’s forehead creases a little, a few tiny lines conveying confusion. Mirroring Oswald’s earlier action, Ed delicately takes Oswald’s freezing hand and guides it to his own neck, carefully tilting it to the side.

He sees the darkness deepen in Oswald’s eyes as he delicately skims his fingers across Ed’s pulse point and the two twin scars which Ed half-thinks will never truly heal.

“Do you want this…” And then he guides Oswald’s hand down down _down,_ under his shirt, and Ed traces Oswald’s thumb across his own skin, just above the hem of his underwear. “Or this?” 

He hears a low moan resonate from the depth of Oswald’s chest, so hauntingly pained it seems to stop the world turning.

“Everything.” Just like his appearance, Oswald’s voice is wrecked, low and hoarse and Ed has to fight back a shiver. The fingers in his hair tighten, twist as the words escape in barely a whisper. “Ed, I want _everything.”_

Ed cannot breathe. “Take it. It's yours.” He meets his eyes and it is as if there is nothing else in the world, nothing that holds the slightest significance. He could drown here, live the rest of his life only ever seeing Oswald so flayed open, so vulnerable, so desperate, so hungry, so _everything._ “All yours.”

The air between them seems to tremble once more and Ed knows, this is it, this is where they fall, tumbling over the edge, submerged in darkness, drowning in each other, just one slip more, just-

“Boss! He’s waking up!” 

The two stare at each other for an incomprehensibly long second, frozen. Gabe’s voice is muffled by the wall yet the words resound out, clear and cutting.

“Boss?”

Ed swallows and it feels like his whole body is shaking with each thud of his heart, the silence so thick as he waits, waits, waits...

“Knock him out.” 

Ed has to try not to choke in surprise as Oswald’s voice rings clear, easily carrying into the next room.

There is a pause. Then Gabe’s more tentative voice. “Are you su-” 

_“Yes.”_

Oswald does not break eye contact with Ed as they wait, not for a single second, not until they hear a thud, silence and then a gruff, “All done, Boss.”

Ed stares at Oswad in utter disbelief. He can do nothing but stare for a good few moments but letting out a baffled hiss of air, a sound of absurd despair. His eyes fall closed as he leans forward to rest his forehead against Oswald’s.

“I could _really_ kill him right now." 

Oswald huffs lightly. For a brief, fleeting moment Ed thinks Oswald will carry on exactly where they left off, that those soft, freezing fingers will continue their descent...but no, the spell has been broken. Their four walled sanctuary has been invaded and now the real world is flooding back in to steal his joy.

_Too late..._

Oswald pulls his hand back, leaving Ed’s skin too cold in their wake.

"I wasn't lying when I said I need him."

 _Well, if you aren’t going to carry on I can at least make you feel bad about it._ Ed hums, pulling Oswald's hands so they are between them. "And I suppose that’s why you decided to beat him bloody during your heroic rescue?" 

And with that Ed begins to lick away at the other’s knuckles, gaining an extraordinary rush of gratification at literally removing every trace of Jim Gordon from Oswald. It would be easier with his canine tongue but Ed isn’t complaining, not when it makes Oswald look at him like that.

 _"Ed,"_ Oswald murmurs, the headiest mix of fondness and pain. Still, he makes no move to stop him. 

The silence settles around them once Ed has finished. Gently he rubs circles onto the back of Oswald's hand, nails lightly tracing the old track marks of veins which are no longer put to use. 

"Jim…” Ed tenses up at the tone of Oswald’s voice, begrudging, almost apologetic. Already he knows he doesn’t want to find out where this sentence is going. “He can't know. About this. Us." 

And suddenly, Ed realises with stunning clarity that he could offer Galavan up on a dish, burn Gotham to ashes, raise Oswald’s very own mother from the grave and yet, still, there would always be a part of Oswald, of the Penguin, that forever belonged to Jim Gordon and never to Ed and he _hates_ it, _hates_ him, _hates-_

"No." Oswald must have felt him unconsciously begin to pull away, can tell exactly where Ed’s mind has gone. Before he can even speak, Oswald's hands are grasping the sides of his head, nails digging into his hairline. His eyes are full of lightning. "It's not what you're thinking." 

And then suddenly Oswald's lips on his, fierce, like fire. Ed’s eyes roll closed as the touch is so cold it feels hot, scorching, as if Oswald is branding his very soul onto Ed’s, promising himself to Ed so completely and utterly in just one kiss that not even death could tear them apart. 

When Oswald pulls back the air has been stolen from Ed's lungs and he half gasps. 

"It's you, Ed. Only you." 

For the first time, Ed feels like he might believe him. 

“Are you…” Ed swallows, the words somehow getting stuck in his throat. He has never wanted like this before and it is terrifying. “Can’t we just-”

Oswald’s eyes flicker down and his hand finds Ed’s. Slowly he interlocks their fingers. Ed watches, mesmerised at the way they just...fit.

“I don’t want to rush this, Ed.” Oswald’s voice wavers a little and, despite his words, Ed can taste the hesitancy, knows that deep down Oswald is just as tempted. Just as longing. “You deserve better than a fumbled fuck in a bathroom, just because of _Jim Gordon.”_

Ed grits his teeth for a moment before sighing. Oswald is, as he almost always is, frustratingly right. Even though the blood in his system is singing to continue, go further, get on his knees and kneel to the Penguin all over again, he knows they both deserve better than this.

_But there might be no more time after this..._

“You’re right. Next time then.”

Unspoken between them the words settle - there will be a next time. There has to be. 

With that promise settling in his chest, Ed gently begins to disentangle the two of them, helping to return Oswald to the ground. Taking a step back he notices with a passing scientific curiosity, just how totally disheveled they both look. It always sends an addictive thrill through him to see the Penguin’s perfectly put together appearance ruffled so devastatingly. Slightly begrudgingly he begins to right himself a little, pushing his glasses back up to their proper place. Can’t have Jim guessing the game straight away after all that.

Oswald has to retrieve his suit jacket from the floor and Ed blinks. He hadn’t even noticed it coming off. 

There is a quiet pause as they both look at each other, neither really wanting to have to leave this sheltered hiding place and face the darkness lurking outside of these four walls.

“I’m not letting Jim ruin anything else for me,” Oswald murmurs, perhaps more to himself than Ed but he can’t be sure, “especially not this.”

Well that settles it. Ed cannot resist ducking in for one more kiss, not when it takes Oswald by surprise and he makes another one of those gloriously startled squeaks. It is agonisingly chaste compared to their other kisses yet it is enough and all Ed can allow himself. He is all too aware of Oswald’s corrosive influence on his self-control.

“Gabe will know, won’t he?” Ed asks as he draws back, enjoying the blissfully dazed expression on Oswald’s face as his eyes have to fight to stay open.

Oswald blinks at him before laughing, the sound heart-stoppingly genuine. It is a sound Ed had feared he would never hear again.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Oswald chuckles darkly as he reaches for the handle, “Gabe knows everything.”

 

//// 

 

They set up the farce of Jim's awakening with just enough time to spare. Even though singing round the piano had been Oswald's idea (maybe some strange, twisted homage to the night before?) his face still briefly ghosts with a look of nostalgic grief when he sees the suggested song, _‘My Mother Looks Over Me’._ Ed politely doesn’t comment and Oswald quickly rights himself.

He is absolutely delighted to discover that Oswald has a gorgeous voice.

“What the hell?” 

Ed smirks a little at Jim’s (second) sudden awakening. He hadn’t been able to resist putting the model skeleton next to the bed. 

Turning, Ed watches as Jim’s eyes quickly focus on what must admittedly be the rather confusing sight of Oswald Cobblepot and Edward Nygma singing and laughing together around the piano.

The small crinkle of confusion between Jim's eyes is the only reason Ed's large beaming grin is at all genuine. 

“At last. How are you feeling?” Oswald is smiling and Ed can’t help but note the genuine excitement in his tone, the way he moves just a little too eagerly to step closer to the bed as the act blends into reality. Immediately any pleasure Ed took at seeing Jim at a complete loss begins to drain from his body, leaving only a background buzzing in his skull.

“Not so good.” Peering around Oswald’s slight frame Jim’s eyes catch Ed’s. “Nygma?” 

Ed forces himself to smile cheerily, boldly facing Jim’s bewildered stare as he stands. “Hi.” 

Oswald chuckles and Ed hates that it isn’t an act, that Oswald is genuinely amused by Jim, that even though he can’t see his face he knows Oswald is grinning. “He’s a friend.” 

Something warm starts to pool in Ed’s stomach, heart kicking against his ribcage just a little harder as the simmering anger fades for a moment. Hearing Oswald proudly, unashamedly use that label, knowing that it is true despite the mess of last night and everything else...it feels good.

Right. 

“Friend…” Jim says, eyebrow raised as he rubs the back of his neck. His eyes dart around, cogs slowly turning as he takes in his surroundings, probably starting to piece together that this is Ed’s apartment. 

_Yes, well you would’ve known that immediately if you’d ever actually visited, wouldn’t you, Jimbo?_

“You’re welcome by the way.” Immediately Ed can taste the sourness in Oswald’s tone, the bitterness which was so thick in every syllable the first few days they’d spoken. “No thanks needed, saving your life and all.” 

“Yeah, sure, thanks.” 

“No. really.” Oswald leans down and he catches the sudden wariness in Jim’s eyes, the barely perceptible way he leans back just a little in instinctual self-preservation. “What are friends for?” 

The air feels to perceptibly chill as Jim glares at Oswald, the tension in the room seeming almost to buzz against his skin like a swarm of insects. 

“You got beat pretty bad.” 

Ed barely holds back a snort. _Yes, and whose fault might that be Oswald?_

“That Galavan is a _pistol,_ isn’t he?”

“Yeah, he is.” And with that Jim stands up, apparently bored of the conversation. Ed watches as Oswald immediately shuffles after him, drawn like a magnet. The sight is like a dagger in his stomach. 

_Remember, he promised. It’s you. Only you. Only you..._

“You’re free to go, of course, Jim. Desperate fugitive from the law though you be.” 

Shifting, Ed also takes a step forward. He decidedly does not like the look in Jim's eyes as he regards Oswald, his eyes swirling with a rage that is barely held back beneath the surface. Oswald, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to care one bit about Jim’s discomfort.

“But I beg of you - sit. Consider. You and I share a bond in Theo Galavan. A passion if you will. If there was ever a time for us to work together, now is that time.” 

_You and I share a bond..._ Ed grits his teeth and mentally replays his various kills in an effort to placate the sudden murderous desire which burns in him like a thirst. Hmm. He's never shot someone before. Strangled, blunt force trauma and stabbed, all very interesting, viable options. But looking at Jim, hearing Oswald say the word _‘bond’_ when describing their relationship, makes his fingers itch for the weight of a gun.

He only just stops a growl from curling out, knowing full well that Oswald would be able to hear it.

He really does not need to be reprimanded for possessiveness he cannot even try to control.

“Fine, I’ll help.” 

Ed cannot see Oswald’s face, but he does watch his muscles relax, can smell his sudden burst of relief. Despite his words and false bravado Ed knows he had been terrified of going up against Galavan by himself. _You wouldn’t have to be if you would just let me help..._

“Glad to hear it, Jim.” 

And with that Oswald spins and walks back. His eyes hold Ed’s for a moment, far too many things flicking through them to catch even with his senses, before he settles on the sofa. 

“The boys will be coming round in a short while. We’re leaving at sundown.” 

Jim rubs the back of his neck, eyes flicking to the skeleton. Ed hopes it is reminiscent of recent nightmares. “So, we’re just going to wait?" 

Oswald stretches out on the sofa, both arms propped up over the back, a position deliberately intended to exude ease and confidence. “A few more hours won’t kill anyone.”

Jim makes a distinctly unimpressed noise but he must have just enough brain cells left to realise he is not in a position to argue. Good boy.

“Hey, Nygma.” Pulse immediately spiking, Ed’s eyes whip up to meet Jim’s and he does his very best not to look like a deer in the headlights. 

“Yes, Detective?”

This is it. The moment Jim decides to ask the difficult, impossible question of why Oswald is in his apartment. _What is he to you…?_ They’d already decided on the cover story that Ed had saved Oswald’s life that night in the forest, nursed him back to health knowing that eventually Galavan would need to be faced. The best lies always include as much truth as possible - the only falsified details in this were Ed’s belief in Oswald’s supposed promise to change his ways.

It also omitted the double murder, their supernatural status and Oswald’s blood poisoning.

Oh, and the almost-sex. That too.

“Sorry to ask but…if we’re going to be hanging around a bit…” Jim swallows, almost self conscious, “can I grab some food? Haven’t eaten in awhile.” 

Ed’s mouth opens and closes. “Of course.” 

Of _course_ Jim would be so disinterested in him to even think to ask what he is doing with a known criminal in his home. _You really see me as that inconsequential, don’t you?_ Still, Ed supposes he really shouldn’t be bitter about it, not when his co-worker’s utter disregard for him may well save his hide.

“Blood bag,” he hears Oswald murmur, so light it is barely a whisper but it is all Ed needs to send him bursting into action. In an instant Ed is charging across the room, body blocking the fridge from view.

Jim freezes, eyes wide in surprise as Ed gives him a tight smile. 

“Any preferences?” 

Jim blinks and Ed almost sighs under the familiar feeling of frustration at how slow these human brains plod along… 

“A sandwich would be great. Any filling, I’m not fussy.” 

He has to physically stop himself from glaring at Jim, forcing himself to keep that senile smile on his face. “Coming right up.” 

Turning he gives a slight nod to Oswald in thanks as he carefully removes the blood bag (that really would be rather condemning, wouldn't it?) once he's sure Jim isn't looking and slides it into a far less visible drawer instead. Crisis averted.

He certainly does _not_ stoop so low as to actually make the sandwich for Jim himself, instead just retrieving a pack of ham (which may or may not be out of date, Ed doesn’t check), some butter and a few slices of bread and placing them on the counter. Jim gives him one of his signature grin/grimaces as he steps up to make his food. Oswald watches the exchange with amusement.

 _Now seems as good a time as any to make an exit..._ Ed makes a slightly obvious, melodramatic display of checking his watch.

“Oh, would you look at the time.” Oswald quirks an eyebrow up at him, as if to say, _really Ed? Really?_ Ed winks at him. “I’ll be late for work.”

“Thanks for the food, Ed,” Jim calls out over his shoulder, not actually turning to look at him.

Oswald’s eyes seem to grow darker for a moment, emotions of every type, texture and timbre shooting through those blue orbs like bullets. They are so cutting, such perfect, deadly reflections of everything that Ed is feeling in the moment that Ed cannot look into them for too long, lest they shatter through them both and he bleeds out.

“Be safe,” Ed whispers under his breath as he crosses to the front door, words masked by his footsteps.

“You too,” comes Oswald’s voice, featherlight as it ghosts past Ed’s ear and chills spring up along his neck.

The door slides shut behind him.

 

//// 

 

The first thing he makes sure to do upon entering the GCPD is explain his late arrival, mournfully relaying that there has been a death in the family, poor old aunt Agatha was always a wonderful woman, etc. etc. He lies through his teeth and hopes the woman listening to him attributes his clipped tone to grief and not tight impatience. 

The morning speeds by after that, Ed managing to use his time somewhat effectively as he listens in on a few conversations. Most noticeably is the discussion, or rather argument, between Doctor Thompkins and Captain Barnes. Still, the short burst of intrigue is quickly smothered by the paranoid need to know what Oswald is doing, if he is alright, whether he was lying earlier about leaving in the evening and has actually already gone, slipped through Ed’s grasp like smoke-

Eventually he cannot stand the dull monotony of forensics any longer. He retreats into the bathrooms, not even bothering to glance at his reflection. 

It is unbelievably frustrating, yet Ed finds he cannot get the vision of Oswald and Jim being alone in his apartment out of his mind, imagining Oswald’s great beaming smile, what they might say, what they might do...

Ed knows only too well how much Jim makes people want him to like them. It is an oddly specific skill yet for some reason his good opinion, even his friendship, somehow becomes a coveted achievement. Once, Ed too had desperately wanted to be his friend, going as far as to hug the man like a brother.

It is an awful power. And one he most certainly has over Oswald. The thought of that is like the screeching of nails down a blackboard and no amount of reason will quiet it.

Ed waits for the bathroom to empty and then he rings his home phone. After four dials the line sparks into life. 

“Hello?” 

Just hearing Oswald’s voice sends a wave of relief coursing through him. He rests a hand on the basin. 

“Mr Penguin,” he exhales, the word drawn from his lips like poison from a wound. 

“Hang on.” His voice becomes muffled, the other line crackling and Ed is sure he catches the muted sounds of footsteps. After a few seconds the noise stops. 

“Sorry, just wanted to step outside. Didn’t want them prying.”

“Them?” Ed turns his back on the mirror, his gaze focusing on a brick in the wall which is ever so slightly darker than the rest.

“Gabe found a few of the boys who are still loyal.” It is frustrating, hearing Oswald’s voice yet being unable to see his expressions, catch the quirk of his lips, the flicker of his eyes. It makes him feel oddly blind. Deprived. “Never hurts to bring a little extra fire power.” 

“Of course.” Ed rubs his temples, chastising himself for his horrific overreaction. Oswald and Jim were not ‘alone’ together. This was nothing more than business. _And you thought you’d been jealous with Kristen..._

“Ed, what's wrong?” 

Ed sighs against the phone, closing his eyes. “Nothing. I just-” 

_I just wanted to hear your voice because you're all I can taste, all I can feel, all I can think about, do you know how rare it is for me to be able to think about only one thing Oswald do you have any idea how awful it is to have one thing one thought one person all consuming in your head every single second do you have any idea what you’ve done to me what you’re still doing to me-_

“Just wanted to check up.” 

There is a light rustle against the other line, as if the phone is being adjusted in Oswald’s grip. 

“Ed…” 

That rising heat from earlier returns as Oswald says his name, his voice lower, strained. 

“I would,” Ed swallows painfully, “I’d kill to be with you right now.” 

Oswald tsks. “Careful, saying things like that in the GCPD.” 

“I mean it.” 

There is a beat of silence. Oswald’s voice is light but strained as if trying to make a joke. “Is this the part where you're supposed to ask me what I'm wearing?” 

Ed frowns. “But I know what you're wearing.” 

At that Oswald does laugh, the noise too static down the phone line to be comforting. 

“Ed,” Oswald chuckles, the name sounding so fond in his voice that it hurts to hear, “that’s not- You know what, nevermind.”

Perplexed Ed frowns but decides to drop it. There are more important questions he needs answers to. “Any news?”

Oswald huffs, voice becoming sharper as he begins to discuss business. "Jim contacted Lee." 

"He did what?" _How stupid is that man?_

Oswald chuckles. "Oh you have no idea of the sit-com drama going on down here. It’s sickening."

Ed’s lips twist, flexing his fingers. “Humans.”

“I _know.”_ He can almost perfectly picture Oswald’s smirk to match his own, the roll of his eyes he doesn’t think anyone can see. "But Lee is here. And refusing to leave for the moment. Without Jim at least." 

Ed’s eyes narrow. “Do you think Jim will go with her?”

_Maybe, if Jim leaves then Oswald will have to take me…_

“Honestly, I’m not sure. She’s, ah, just given him a rather compelling argument.”

“She’s pregnant.”

There is a surprised silence on the other end of the phone. “You knew?”

Ed cannot help a small smile, smug that for once he is step ahead of Oswald. “Pregnancy changes body chemistry. It only took me a week to discern exactly what had caused the shift in her scent. A bit predictable really.”

Oswald takes a few seconds before he speaks again but his voice is coloured, tinged with something almost like awe. “Well, I’m impressed. Jim didn’t know.”

 _There are a lot of things Jim doesn’t know._ “What time are you planning to leave?”

"Eight is the plan.”

Ed checks his watch, counting down the number of hours he’ll be forced to spend imprisoned before he can escape back home. "I'll be back before then." 

Oswald's voice takes on that warning edge again. "Ed-" 

"It's my apartment. My not being there would be more suspicious." 

Oswald sighs. "Fine. It would-" There is a pause. And then, more softly. "I'd be lying if I said it wouldn't be good to see you again. Before..." 

Ed licks his lips, chest suddenly uncomfortably tight. He hates the fear which he can’t shake that no matter what Oswald promises, tonight will be the end, one way or another. He cannot let that be the case.

"I’ll be there." 

"Good.” Oswald’s voice is gentle, the words like cool water against the fever of Ed’s thoughts. “Be safe, Ed." 

"You too." 

Oswald is the one who terminates the call and isn't that just telling? Ed throws his, still normal, reflection a dirty look, practically able to hear the snide remark and exits the bathroom, thoughts already turning to gathering information, mayhaps listening in on any further conversations so he can be of some use-

"You've been off twice this week, haven't you, Nygma?" 

Whirling 180, heart in his throat, Ed comes face to face with Barnes. The GCPD Captain is leaning against the wall, one eyebrow slightly raised. Ed desperately prays his face does not give away the utter terror which just exploded through his system at the fear of being caught red-handed. 

"I'm sorry?" _You really needs to work on your ‘innocent, law-abiding citizen’ voice, Edward. A week living with the Penguin has really not helped you in that regard..._

Barnes doesn't move, his face just as impassive as usual. "I asked about your latest absences." 

Ed swallows, forcing down the frantic thoughts of _did he hear does he know does he suspect-_

"What about them?" 

The image of Barnes perched, ear pressed to the washroom door, listening in on his phone call to Oswald, rises unbidden in his mind and Ed has to forcibly clamp down on it because this paranoia isn’t going to help _anyone._

Damnit, if Edward Nygma is nothing else he is _rational._

"You've missed two days in a week. According to the boys that's the equivalent of snow in July." 

Immediately Ed's brain short-circuits into overdrive as he pulls himself back into that old familiar hunched position. "You'd be surprised how frequently weather phenomena like that does occur. Why, within the last decade alone reports have found that-" 

Barnes sighs in the same way a longsuffering parent would in response to an unruly child and uncrosses his arms. "It's a turn of phrase. Just meant it was unusual and wanted to check up on you." 

Ed cannot speak for a moment he is so surprised. "You-" He swallows. "You're concerned about my _wellbeing?"_

Barnes rolls his eyes slightly as he takes his weight off the wall, taking a step closer. "Yes, Nygma, you don’t need to sound so shocked. With everything going on at the moment I wanted to see you were holding up alright." 

Even though his words betray no suspicion there is something about Barnes that sets Ed on edge… Maybe it’s something in his scent, something underlying which Ed can’t even pinpoint yet senses instinctively as untrustworthy. He is not about to be caught out after all this. Not when there is so much to lose.

"Well, humans are fallible, are they not?" 

Barnes frowns ever so slightly, obviously not satisfied, but he does not question Ed's vague response, nor the double meaning. _Oh, if only you knew..._

"My condolences for your Great Aunt."

Ed nods tersely, pushing his glasses up with his index finger. "Appreciated." 

"Will you be requesting leave to attend the funeral?" 

Ed narrows his eyes a little. Perhaps a day or two of leave would be useful... "If that becomes relevant I shall come to you directly. Now if there's not anything else?" 

Barnes regards him for a few moments, the grim set of his mouth making Ed’s stomach squirms...but then he nods, seemingly conceding defeat. “That’s all, Nygma.”

The Captain walks away and Ed is left in the corridor, alone, heart hammering hard behind his ribs and that delicious electricity skittering through his veins as he grins to himself.

 _There really is nothing more addictive than almost getting caught._

 

//// 

 

The rest of the day reminds Ed unnervingly of when he’d been attempting to discover the cause of Oswald's illness. Every nerve is electrified, each minor sound or smell amplified to an almost painful degree as Ed both longs for and dreads the ticking of the clock. Each second is one closer to seeing Oswald again. 

It is also one closer to leaving Oswald.

_This thing all things devours:_  
_Birds, beasts, trees, flowers;_  
_Gnaws iron, bites steel;_  
_Grinds hard stones to meal;_  
_Slays king, ruins town,_  
_And beats high mountain down..._

Time. His greatest enemy. Totally and utterly undefeatable. 

There is no way around this. Ed can feel the finality of today gathering in his gut, the gloom of the still hovering storm clouds invasive and threatening. 

_Slays king, ruins town…_ One way or another, death sits tonight with its great maw spread wide. Yet who is it going to claim? Galavan? Oswald? Jim? 

The not-knowing is almost unbearable. All-consuming. Maddening. 

And, it is the reason why Ed does something incredibly stupid.

Ed genuinely has no idea what he spends the time doing, however, the clock is disturbingly close to the end of his shift when his ears prick up.... 

"We need Jim Gordon." 

Carefully, Ed begins to inch forwards, eyes firmly fixed on the mess of black ink swirling on the clipboard before him. 

A short way across the room is Detective Bullock, a very proper looking man dressed in a waistcoat (the butler to Bruce Wayne if he's correct) and...another man, also sporting a smart suit. He doesn’t even waste the effort of attempting to deduce whom it could be, instead focusing his attention on the conversation.

“Jim Gordon is perfect for this kind of thing. Where is he?” The butler asks, consonants clipped and rough.

“Yeah, where is he?” Harvey asks dryly, “Where is Jim Gordon? It’s a long story but nobody knows.” 

Ed is exhausted. That’s why, he reasons to himself, that’s why he slips. Why his self-control is so unbearably strained that he can’t quite hold back the giggle that is begging to be released. _Nobody knows._ Quite right. _After all, didn’t you always dismiss me, detective, always consider me a ‘nobody’._

“Something funny Ed?” 

Well...crap. 

Ed's eyes dart up to watch as the three men begin to stand, their focus entirely on him and Ed suddenly feels disconcertingly exposed.

“Do you know where Gordon is?” the British man barks out at him, voice like gravel and the name Alfred jangles in his brain, dislodged from the clutter of his tired thoughts. “Start speaking windows.” 

The nickname goes through Ed like a knife and that restless anger which has been chomping at the bit suddenly roars back into life. 

Alfred and the unknown man frown, drawing back a little at the sudden shift in Ed’s expression but Harvey seems unsurprised, probably putting it down as one of ‘freakish Nygma’s ticks’. _Not now damnit, not now._

He reigns back the Beast, yanking back the chain with cold, hard logic as he turns to his first layer of defence, as always.

“A diamond plate, a glowing grate, a place you never leave. Where am I?” 

There is the all too familiar stunned silence and he thinks for a glorious moment he’s gotten away with it when- 

“Home.” Ed’s eyes snap to this new man, meeting his dark eyes which are full of a quiet, confident intelligence that Ed had frustratingly overlooked before. Have you learnt nothing from Oswald? _‘Just because our bodies are different doesn't mean our minds are as well. They can still out-think us. If we get arrogant we forget that..’_

“Whose home? Your home?” 

_Arrogance leads to extinction._

“Gordon’s at your home?” There is steel to this man’s voice, something sharp and piercing. Instinctually Ed feels his back straighten, fingers tightening around the wood of the clipboard in an effort to stop them from reaching for his neck instead. 

“No. Yes.” The words tumble out without meaning to as, like lightning, his brain begins to reassess the situation. 

“Who are you?” 

 

//// 

 

Ed drives the three men back to his apartment; he is not about to trust them to arrive unannounced. While there is no opportunity to alert Oswald to the new development, not with their eyes trained on his every move with suspicion he cannot afford, he can at least do his best to mitigate any damage. 

The drive is one of those painfully awkward situations, sitting in a hot, impatient silence, which before he would have hated. Now he really doesn’t care. The gentle rush of cars and hum of the city is a welcome distraction from the gnawing whispers of his fears.

Ed had been expecting to have to take the others up to his apartment but they arrive just in time to see Jim and Lee Thompkins in a car, seemingly about to drive away. This must be the ‘relationship drama’ Oswald had hinted at earlier. How incredibly dull.

“Jim!”

Ed moves quickly to avoid getting caught in the not-so happy reunion between Gordon’s friends and enters the building. Oswald’s scent is especially strong, as if he had just walked here and Ed is quick to follow, taking the steps two at a time as he finally reaches his door.

He coughs, so Oswald will have a little warning, but the anxiety is too much and he is already hurriedly sliding open the door, eyes quickly scanning the room. He counts six hired help until his vision finally focuses on the black hole which draws his attention all-consumingly every time they are in the same room.

_It’s you. Only you._

Both of them visibly relax the moment they see each other, as if just the presence of their counterpart grants them unspeakable comfort and strength. 

“Ed,” Oswald says in a voice which to others would undoubtedly come off as bored, indifferent. In fact it is the very same tone he had used earlier during their argument. Yet, now Ed can hear the warmth beneath the syllable, can practically feel the sweet caress on his cheek he had been deaf to before, the secret greeting which no one else can hear. 

Ed swallows. “Mr Penguin.”

He watches Oswald’s fingers clench around the breakfast bar, as if he is having to hold himself there to stop himself from walking closer. 

And then the apartment is all frenzy as Gordon’s friends enter and simultaneously see Oswald, promptly erupting into questions. Jim hovers at the door, visibly uncomfortable as he stares at his shoes and Ed inwardly curses.

_So much for paternal instincts..._

It takes a while for it all to quiet down but eventually they do, thankfully without Ed having to say a single word. If circumstances were different he would most likely be annoyed with Oswald having to act as his voice but they both know Ed cannot afford to look like an accomplice. He must remain innocent and spotless, so he slips back into his sheep’s clothing, fading into the background and watches the show unfold.

Interestingly it is only this new player, Lucius Fox, that keeps casting Ed furtive glances as the evening progresses. Ed just plasters on a cordial smile and considers how rare it is to find genuine intelligence in humans. _Foxy indeed… I’ll have to keep an eye on you._

“Alright, we’re working with Mr Cobblepot here. That’s agreed.” The Butler stands stiffly, hands clasped behind his back. His eyes shine with urgency. “Now, can we please get on and discuss how we’re going to rescue Master Bruce?”

As surreptitiously as possible Ed distances himself from the group, knowing full well he cannot appear to be intentionally listening in on the conversation. He busies himself clearing up the kitchen, noting as he shuffles mugs into cupboards, that the blood bag he had hidden earlier has gone. He frowns but pushes it to the back of his mind.

It is interesting watching Oswald as an observer again. He is drawn to his full height, the force of his personality making him seem a bigger presence than he actually is. Again, Ed marvels at how _different_ he looks from when he first found him in the forest, how much more healthy and strong and alive he seems. 

_You are the only reason I'm still standing here, that I'm able to have my revenge at all..._

Oswald is sharply analytic tonight, politeness covering the conversation like a sheet over a corpse as the group exchange quips and barbs - Ed even has to stifle a giggle at a few of Oswald’s more pointed insults. Obviously, working with the former mob boss of Gotham is not something any of the others are comfortable with. But they need the guns. And the information.

While he appreciates being able to watch Oswald in a situation he is obviously incredibly adept in, Ed feels an itch under his skin that he cannot join him. A vision flickers in his mind’s eye of a similar war cabinet where all of the players in Gotham are meeting, yet instead of skulking in the shadows, hidden, Ed is in the middle of it, standing at Oswald’s side. He can feel not only the rippling satisfaction of being taken seriously on his own grounds, but also the stalwart source of strength found in his and Oswald’s unity. The Kings of Gotham, together and utterly undefeated.

The vision blinks away and Ed is left in the uncomfortable reality that he is simply not important. 

Not yet, anyway.

After about fifteen minutes of heavy debate (two alternate plans seem to be being debated) Harvey seems to grow bored with the conversation. Ed watches with sharp eyes as the brutish detective obnoxiously wanders away from the table, eyes skimming over Ed’s collections. Indolently, he picks up a book on the side of Ed’s coffee table and thumbs through it. 

Immediately Ed notes it as one of the books Oswald had last been reading. 

“Hadn’t pegged you for a romantic, Nygma,” Harvey says through a smirk after meeting Ed’s gaze. 

Ed crosses to him in a few long strides and snatches the book out of his hand, not caring to hide his frustration in his eyes.

“Gothic literature is anything but romantic, Detective,” he snaps, trying to keep his voice level and even, so as not to draw attention from the main group, “if you’d ever attempted to read any you would know.”

Perhaps that was a little too on the nose, a tad too openly aggressive, but Harvey just gives him an amused grunt. “Feeling defensive, Nygma?” He mutters under his breath before turning back to the table.

Ed watches Bullock’s retreating form, calculating just how much force he would have to use to bludgeon his brains in with the desk lamp. _A pitifully low amount..._ Breathing sharply through his nose his gaze wanders, as it always does, back to Oswald who is leaning over the table. Briefly their eyes catch each other, hold, and Ed wonders whether this will ever lose its addictive thrill.

Oswald quirks an eyebrow ever so slightly, in question. 

Ed gives him a subtle nod in return. _All alright._

Reassured, Oswald’s attention returns to the debate. A conversation Ed knows he could contribute greatly to, yet has no place for him. 

His thumb traces the creased spine of the novella. In truth Ed has little time for fictional works; there seems no point in, what his experience has revealed at the very least, excessively flowery and long-winded descriptions of unnecessary and unlikely drama. There is little to no new knowledge, true, factual knowledge to be gained from them, so he has never invested.

He had only procured a few different pieces of literature from various eras after hypothesising about Oswald’s true nature. Gothic vampiric tales, ancient folk lore in their original languages, even modern day trash - anything which could point to clues about their existence. It had been a largely unhelpful few weeks of research, leading to nothing more than frustration at the unending different accounts and human imaginings of undead. 

Still, it had obviously provided Oswald with some much needed entertainment during his stay.

Glancing down Ed sees a page is still dogeared. Curious (he never did ask Oswald what he read) Ed opens it and reads... 

~~~  
_You will think me cruel, very selfish, but love is always selfish; the more ardent the more selfish. How jealous I am you cannot know. You must come with me, loving me, to death; or else hate me, and still come with me, and hating me through death and after. There is no such word as indifference in my apathetic nature._  
~~~

Ed frowns, a strange discomfort tightening in his chest. He thinks he understands why Oswald had chosen to read this one. 

The discussion does not last much longer with one plan, Oswald’s original one he believes, being settled on as the most efficient. A last minute surprise addition comes in the form of a girl, a _child,_ climbing through the window and offering her help. Oswald’s eyes meet his again, a shared look of despair at what the world is coming to when children are now apparently acceptable members of high-stake, extremely sensitive missions.

Eventually the moment comes, the moment Ed knows his time has run dry and if he ever hopes to speak to Oswald again he must do so, _now._

“Mr Penguin, may I just have a moment?”

The room is empty and it is only the two of them left, the space stretching between them barely a few strides, yet in the shifting shadows it suddenly seems like an ocean. Oswald pauses, one hand hovering over the handle. 

It is as if he has been waiting for this moment too.

“Yes, Ed?”

 _Now or never._ Ed steps forward, distance closing with each quick step of his feet, following the siren call which burns in his blood like an inferno, drawing them closer and closer and then- 

Ed presses himself against Oswald, arms encircling the man’s smaller frame and he marvels at how their bodies, so angular, so awkward, fit together like puzzle pieces. Ed exhales a short, hot hiss of air as Oswald almost immediately crumples into the embrace, arms coming up to rest against Ed’s shoulder blades. 

Ed buries his head in Oswald’s hair and just breathes in, letting that scent fill him up once again.

_It’s you Oswald, only you, always you can’t leave me, can’t do this again, I can’t remember how to survive before you how to live before you, anything you want to make you stay I’ll give you books blood my body my heart my life you can have it take it’s yours all yours always yours_

Ed has never been good with words. The purpose of riddles is to confuse, to conceal - facetiousness is an integral part of the parlour trick. Riddles, he can cope with. But honesty?

Ed has no experience with that. Just look at Kristen - that had all gone to hell because of secrets and lies and a possessiveness so fierce in his chest he couldn’t breathe, such burning devotion that he could never express in gentle ways. Human ways. He has no clue how to even try to tell Oswald everything he needs to.

Then he remembers: 

Oswald isn’t human. He can tell him in other ways. In their own language that only they can understand.

"Don't die.” The words come out muffled against Oswald’s hair.

He can practically feel Oswald rolling his eyes. “I will try my hardest.” 

“No, you don’t-” _Damnit, why do you always make this so difficult?_ Ed pulls back, takes Oswald’s face between his hands and stares into Oswald’s silver pools. “I mean it. This isn't over." 

Oswald blinks, once, twice, mouth opening as if to say something, but it would seem that the Penguin’s eloquence fails him on this occasion. After a few seconds he instead seems to settle for another form of speech. 

Oswald kisses Ed, intense and slow, but without the violence of before. Every millisecond of it hurts in a way Ed didn't think it ever could as he realises that this is the first time Oswald has been the one to move first. It only lasts a few heartbeats yet when Oswald breaks away Ed can feel he is no longer the same person, something in his chest has torn and he is bleeding out, there is so much aching pain, why does it hurt so much- 

“Thank you for saving me, Ed. This past week, you’ve done so much, I don’t know how I can ever repay you…” 

Oh. That’s why it hurts. 

Because this is it. 

Because this is final. 

Because Oswald is saying goodbye. 

“You want to repay me?” He doesn't know why they're talking in whispers, as if they're afraid someone is listening at the door. He supposes someone could. “Let me come with you. I can change, hide in the shadows, just watch. Make sure Galavan doesn’t-” 

“Ed.” Oswald’s eyes are hard. “I need to do this and I can't be distracted because I’m worrying about you. Stay and be safe. I won't make you but…” 

_But I could._ The words simmer, acidic and poisonous between the precious sliver of air between them.

“I can’t lose someone else to Galavan. Please, Ed, stay. For me.” 

Ed’s thoughts reel suddenly to the memory of Oswald saying those words but a few hours ago, Ed’s hands around his neck as he asked Ed to strangle him.

_You’re right back where you started, back with accepting rejection, letting what you want slip away..._

Ed leans forward so their foreheads are touching and focuses on that now familiar, sapping cold against his skin. Sometimes he really hates how weak he is for this man. 

“Alright, fine. I'll stay." He releases a shaky breath, the words just as painful to say as they had been to think, "but you have to promise me that you’re not going to let Galavan kill you. And that you’ll see me again. Please.”

He speaks so quietly he wonders for a moment whether he has said anything at all. Yet, Oswald hears him. He always hears him.

Oswald kisses him, once again so devastatingly tenderly, as if Ed is something precious, something to be treasured and prized and cherished, as if he cannot believe he is being allowed to touch him at all. 

It makes Ed want to scream.

Ed has always known Oswald could hurt him in a myriad of ways. He already has done. Strangled him, suffocated him, pressed a knife against his skin, bruised him, bitten him, shoved him, rejected him.

Yet, he had never for one second imagined Oswald could hurt him like this. 

“You have my word, Edward Nygma.” Oswald’s lips are wet and glistening as he leans back. Ed cannot help but stare.

“Thank you,” Ed breathes as he runs a tremulous finger across Oswald’s cheek, committing the flicker of Oswald’s eyes, the shine over those storm clouds which are dotted with specks of black, to memory. 

He lingers for a moment longer than he should before, with bitterness churning in his gut, he steps back. Swallowing, Ed carefully watches as that shining vulnerability and affection and warmth in Oswald’s expressions begin to harden, freeze as the well-worn mask of the Penguin slips back into place. 

_This could be the last time you see him._

The snarling force of revulsion at that thought is so strong Ed, for a moment, is stifled by it. He thinks back, long long months ago at their first true meeting, to when Ed had first seen the Penguin, and beneath that veil, Oswald. Maison de la Mort. Glancing across a room one instant and the next finding a connection unparalleled to anything else in existence.

Every day of his life Ed has always felt this deep, angry, aching in his bones which he had never been able to identify. Not before Oswald. Now he knows - he had been lonely. Desperately, devastatingly lonely.

And so had Oswald.

_I’ve only just found you, Oswald. I’ve just barely begun to find myself. Don’t make me learn how to live without you. Don’t make me learn to be lonely again. Don’t leave me-_

“You coming, Oswald?” 

They both turn sharply, their dual surprise and fear a hot, spiced aroma in Ed’s nostrils. Jim stands at the door, a small frown creasing his forehead as he looks between the two of them curiously. Once again, Ed feels another irrational wave of paranoia sweep through his body, suddenly imagining there is a large neon sign hovering just above their heads with their thoughts emblazoned in bold, capital red ticker tape, revealing _everything._

But, obviously, there isn’t.

“Of course. We wouldn’t want an orphaned billionaire dying on us, would we? They’re in such small supply.”

Oswald flashes a saccharine smile, full of teeth and Jim’s frown deepens. For a moment, Ed is convinced he is going to say something else, argue, insult, question...but it never comes. Throwing the both of them an impatient glare Jim turns and walks down the corridor, growling out, “hurry _up.”_

Ed looks back to Oswald just in time to catch another of those golden eye-rolls and, despite the dread curling in his stomach, he cannot help a small smile. Oswald’s eyes meet his and they share a brief, snatched second, together.

_It’s you. Only you._

_Always you..._

“Thank you, Ed.” 

The moment shatters as Oswald lurches away and he walks out of Ed’s apartment for what might be the last time. He does not look back. It is only as the door clangs shut that Ed understands, the final puzzle piece slipping into place. 

_What is he to you?_

The Beast’s question to him ricochets inside his brain once more and he finally has an answer for him which fits. 

Oswald is his mate. 

And he has just let him walk to his possible death. 

“Oh _fuck.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *peeks head over the battlements* Hello? Anyone still here?
> 
> First off, I must apologise for such an unbelievably long wait for this chapter. Exams which decide Uni happened and they really sucked all of my drive for writing out of me. However, that is all finished and I am into my first choice Uni (which I’m ecstatic about) and have finally had time to beat this out properly. I’ve had the skeleton of this chapter outlined in my notes for so long but it was a bit of an agonising process to piece it all together. For putting you patient people through many months of waiting I can only say sorry, as well as thank everyone who has been supportive and lovely in the interim. Every comment, even the ones nagging me to write, mean the world, so thank you!
> 
> This chapter can otherwise be called ‘Edward Nygma is a jealous, jealous man’, good grief. I’d forgotten how extra Ed was before writing this - I had no idea what introducing Jim into the equation would do but yup, Ed is territorial like no one’s business. The quote from the gothic novel Oswald was reading is Carmilla by Sheridan LeFanu - it’s one of the foundational vampire texts which greatly inspired Dracula, using vampirism as a metaphor for the dangers of uninhibited sexuality, specifically lesbianism. A short but good read for any interested, with a few rather fun parallels to this story...
> 
> It’s ironic because I was worried this chapter would be too short compared to recent ones. I shouldn’t have worried. Please let me know what you thought! One more to go now and that I know for definite will be considerably shorter than this so don’t worry about having to wait nearly as long. We’re coming to the end and I can’t wait to share it with you all! Until next time...


End file.
